Bleeding
by Lynse
Summary: Another family murdered, and another case for the CBI that Jane's determined to close. But this one isn't quite what it seems—-something apparently confirmed by the presence of one Doctor John Smith who insists that he's the only one who can sort things.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: For the Doctor, this takes place soon after _Planet of the Dead_. For the CBI, this occurs shortly before _The Red Box_. As for Bluewater, CA—it exists, but the facts end there.

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and I make no money from this work of fiction!_

* * *

Clarence Williams never thought himself to be anything but an ordinary man. He was an honest man and believed in the value of good, hard work. He wasn't a wealthy man but he was happy and he had a loving wife and two children, and for him, that was all that really mattered. He didn't mind that they didn't have the newest or the best. They were happy with what they had. Their house, their car—these material things weren't old, not to the Williams family. They had character and each blemish had a thousand memories connected to it, forming a million stories, each thread leading to another.

They hadn't had much, that family, when they'd first come to the little town of Bluewater, California. There wasn't much there, but it suited them. They made friends and became known as a respectable family. Emma and Billy, the children, attended the local school. They weren't in the top of their classes, but they tried their best. Emma always watched out for little Billy, even though she was only two years his senior. They still had their scraps, like all children, but even at seven and nine, the two would silently admit that they felt sorry for what they had done. They knew how much it distressed their mother.

"You're bleeding," she'd said, disapprovingly, as she'd taken in their latest battle scars after they'd finally come home from school that blustery March day. They'd given her their excuses, the tales of teasing and the he-started-it accusations, but Marianne Williams had been watching her children walk the block home from school together, and she had known better. They had been quibbling over nothing more than the rock they'd picked up off the street, nothing more than a shiny bit of white quartz hardly bigger than a marble, and had been arguing over who had seen it first (Billy) and who had picked it up first (Emma) and therefore whose property it was. She hadn't had the strength to do more than take it away from Billy (who had wrestled it from Emma's grasp) and put it away, out of reach, and leave the matter for their father to deal with when he returned home, if it was not already forgotten by then.

Now, Emma and Billy didn't know, exactly, why their mother wasn't as chipper as she had once been. They knew it had only been a year or so after they'd moved to Bluewater that the headaches had started, and they knew, quite well, that when their father told them to be quiet, or to go outside and play, that their mother had another one of those headaches. She'd been to the doctor, once, but Emma couldn't quite remember where. And she may not have been very old then, but she remembered how sad her parents had looked in the weeks following it, and how often her father had sat behind his desk, working on things she didn't understand. She almost envied Billy, whose memories of the days before the illness were vague recollections at best. But that's not to say that he didn't know what he was missing.

Marianne's illness hadn't limited her, not at first. She'd never let it interfere with her mothering, having always been ready to play with her children, and she had done as much as she could in the community. She'd always contributed delicious pies to the various bake sales that were held as fundraisers, for instance. When her illness progressed, she was missed. She'd pushed herself, but there were mornings when she hadn't been able to bring herself to get out of bed. They were still a family, those four, tightly-knit, an important part of the community fabric, but sometimes…sometimes their façade cracked, and people would get a brief glimpse of precisely how hard the family tried, and how hard it was for them to make ends meet, now that the illness was taking a greater part in their lives.

A few do-gooders had decided, earlier that week, that final week in March, to do something for the Williams family. Knowing they were too proud to accept charity, the well-meaning group had devised a way to help the family in little ways, repaying them, and more, for what they'd given to the community, from their ingenious little ideas to the bright smiles that still graced their faces whenever they were out in public. It was a campaign that brought the community together, reminding many of them of how easy it was to help, if they only tried. It made them realize how much it meant to Clarence and Marianne to have their children raised not only by themselves but by the community as a whole, and many of the townspeople felt fortunate that the family had settled there.

And then, for unfathomable reasons known only to the one who committed the deed, the family was torn apart.

Literally.

And the little town of Bluewater, California, was suddenly put on the map, thrust into the spotlight for a brutal quadruple murder that ought never to have happened.

* * *

Agent Teresa Lisbon, with the California Bureau of Investigation, had been disgusted when she'd first heard the details of the Williams' case. How anyone could even _consider_ doing that to another human being was beyond her, but it wasn't her job to understand those people. It was her job to catch them. And now, at the request of the local authorities, she and her team were heading the investigation.

They couldn't all go, of course. Someone needed to stay behind, especially now that…. But that was in the past, and she couldn't dwell on it now. She had more important things to do.

Right now, that included keeping the unruly Patrick Jane in line. She couldn't just leave it up to Agent Kimball Cho to keep their consultant in order. Well, not always, anyway. Not that Cho never went along with Jane, but she wasn't exactly infallible in that area, either, and Cho was a lot more likely to stop Jane's nonsense than Agents Wayne Rigsby or Grace Van Pelt. Lisbon knew she shouldn't have, technically, left those two back in Sacramento together, but even after all their secret-keeping, she still trusted them with her life, and she trusted them not to do anything stupid.

And they wouldn't, not those two. They knew better. Doing something stupid seemed to be Jane's job and Jane's alone.

Mainly because, predictably, they had no sooner made it to the crime scene and the introductions had been made than he had wandered off. He was probably inside already, doing who knew what. Lisbon sighed. "Officer Waterer, we'll be taking it from here, thank you. Your people have done a good job of securing the area, and I'd appreciate it if—"

"Hello!" called out a cheery voice, interrupting her. "Don't mind me. Just popping in for a quick look-see."

So much for crowd control. She turned around, starting, "Sir, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to step back and—"

"Oh, sorry," the man continued, one hand fishing in the breast pocket of his brown pinstriped suit. "I forgot to show you my identification. Silly me. You'd think I would have learned after all these years."

Right, as if the British man was about to produce anything that would— Lisbon blinked, staring at the wallet he held up. Oh. He _did_ have authority to be here. But that didn't make sense. This wasn't anything big, anything important. Horrible, yes, but not especially out of the ordinary. There was no reason….

It didn't bear thinking about. He was here, and now she had to deal with him. "Dr. Smith," she acknowledged politely, "please forgive me. I wasn't informed. I'm Agent Teresa Lisbon, with the CBI—California Bureau of Investigation—and this is my colleague, Agent Kimball Cho, and I'm sure you've corresponded with Officer Lloyd Waterer?"

"Not exactly, no," Dr. Smith admitted—and from the look on Officer Waterer's face, the man hadn't even been expecting anything of the sort, let alone been previously informed. "Bit of a surprise, I'm afraid. Now, why don't you tell me what you know while we have a quick look inside?"

Officer Waterer started to explain the situation again, and Dr. Smith's face grew grim. He walked straight to the entrance of the living room where the crime had been committed and stopped dead. "Something's not right here," he murmured, looking into the bloodied room.

"Four people were murdered," the police officer pointed out. "Bluewater's a small town, not a big city. No one expects something like this to happen out here."

"Right. Yes. I know. Terrible tragedy." Dr. Smith shot another quick glance at the room and then turned back to Officer Waterer. "And the bodies have been removed prior to a full examination because—?"

"They were gone by the time the police arrived on scene," Officer Waterer answered stiffly, sounding as if he had fully intended to get to that point before Dr. Smith had blatantly reminded him of it. "They were there when we got the call, and seven minutes later, they were gone. No one saw anything. Whoever did it moved fast. We didn't even find prints."

"Right." Dr. Smith closed his eyes, deep in thought. "Could've managed it if the killer was skilled, but if he was, he would've only made such a mess to draw attention to himself. Or away from something else." Dr. Smith's brow creased for a moment, and then his eyes snapped open and he said, "I need you to seal this entire area off, right now. And I don't just mean corded off with tape and all that. I mean, literally, sealed off, this entire room, best you can. No one can come in here, do you hear me? No one. Not one curiosity seeker so much as peeking through the windows, got that? And track down everyone who _has_ been in here. I want to have a look at them. Have a little chat, I mean. Just to see. Can you do that for me?"

"Well, I—"

"_Now_, Officer?"

"I— Of course. I'll get on that right away."

Lisbon smiled as Officer Waterer took his leave. "You're good," she praised, looking at Dr. Smith with the beginnings of true respect.

"Yes, I am," Dr. Smith agreed. "But I wasn't kidding, either. Something's not right here, and no one can go in until I've got it sorted out. Not even you. I'm not even sure it's safe for me, but that's a risk I'm going to take. But not with you, so keep back." He looked back at the room again. "Because I've got a bad feeling," he added, still not looking at them, "and that's not a good thing, because my bad feelings are usually spot on. So if you think this looks bad, well, I can only guarantee that it's a whole lot worse than you think it is."

* * *

A/N: This has been gnawing away at me for a while now, and since I finally figured out a plot, I decided to drop a little teaser of the story to come (eventually). Any thoughts, anyone?


	2. Chapter 2

"Believe me, we've seen worse things than this," Lisbon said, levelling the Doctor with a pointed look Donna would be proud of.

But she didn't understand. And now that he'd had a bit of time to watch the room, the walls themselves, he had a feeling that he knew what it was. Not why, not how, but _what_, and perhaps, from there, he could find out the why and the how. Once he'd stopped it, and it was sorted. Or at least until he staunched the bleeding. Because that entire room was still bleeding. It wasn't gushing, not anymore, but it was still seeping. And that was most definitely not a good thing.

But he wasn't sure if he could explain all that to Lisbon or her colleague, who definitely looked like the type who didn't buy into anything that would, admittedly, sound like crazy ramblings. But sometimes humans surprised him, and saw more than he gave them credit for. Perhaps one of this lot would see it, too. It was possible. He had to try. "No, that's not what I mean. Look at them. Those walls are _bleeding_," the Doctor explained, reaching out one hand to gesture at, but not touch, the stained walls that opened into the bloodied living room.

"Sir, you may have authority to be on the crime scene, but you cannot compromise our investigation because of an imagined danger," Lisbon said. "Please stand aside and let us in."

The Doctor didn't move. "I don't think it's safe," he told her simply, praying that, just once, he'd be believed. "Not yet. We have to wait for the bleeding to stop."

"Cho," Lisbon called, looking over at him.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to step away, sir," Cho informed the Doctor simply, stepping up to lead him away.

"You don't understand," the Doctor insisted, dragging his feet as best he could. "As long as it's bleeding, we're all in danger. Well, we're safe enough out _here_, but in there? There's no telling what we'll be exposed to in there."

"We'll take our chances," Lisbon said bluntly.

"Who found them?" the Doctor asked suddenly, homing in on the one detail Officer Waterer had neglected to tell him. "Tell me, who came in here, into that room, and saw them all, what was left of them?"

"Why ask if you already know the answer?" piped up a new voice. It was a man, clutching a mug of what, the Doctor could tell from the smell, was tea.

"What makes you think I know?" the Doctor asked carefully.

The blond man smiled. "Because you chose that particular question to get Lisbon to stop. And it worked, just as you knew it would." He paused. "And, you've been blocking the entrance to the living room, so you've looked in and seen the prints in the blood, and you can look at the size and guess that most of those were made by a child's shoe, and you can look at the horror and just imagine how terrifying that would be to such a young, innocent mind. It makes you angry, and you know that almost everyone would feel the same response, so you simply asked that one question, knowing that Lisbon, once reminded of it, would stop in her tracks."

The Doctor grinned. "Oh, you're good."

"Patrick Jane," the man said, offering his hand.

The Doctor took it, still grinning, shaking it enthusiastically. "Doctor John Smith. You can just call me the Doctor. I take it you're with them?" he nodded towards Lisbon and Cho.

"Mr. Jane is a consultant," Lisbon broke in.

"Yes," agreed the Doctor, looking him up and down before turning back to Lisbon. "He's not carrying a gun. But he's clearly someone who's been looking more closely at the room than you, I imagine." The Doctor turned his attention back to Jane. "But you didn't go inside. Why?"

"Oh, I couldn't compromise the investigation just because I wanted to be the first person to get a good look around," Jane said—and from Lisbon's snort, the Doctor gathered that that was rarely the case. Which meant that it probably wasn't the reason here, either. But he had to be good, or they wouldn't keep him around.

"Why else?" the Doctor asked.

"Because I noticed something strange," Jane answered, smiling slightly.

"The walls?" the Doctor pressed. "You noticed the bleeding walls?"

"You keep saying that," Jane noted, avoiding the question. "The blood on the walls is dry, but you keep saying they're bleeding—why?"

The Doctor blinked. That was rather sudden. But there was no real harm in answering it. It wasn't as if he couldn't escape if they locked him up somewhere. It was only 2010, after all. "I never said they were bleeding blood," the Doctor explained. He hesitated, about to go on, to tell them about how he suspected there was a wound in time, but held back, just for a moment. If he went and got himself locked up before he staunched the bleeding, let alone healed the wound or at the very least stitched it up, things would get very bad very fast, and if they got too bad too fast, he'd find himself up against Reapers.

Again.

That was not an experience he cared to repeat.

"Then what are they bleeding?" Jane asked simply.

"That's not important right now," the Doctor said. "What _is_ important is what happened to the child who found them. Who was it?"

"Emma's friend, Julia McDonald," Lisbon answered.

"And what happened to her?"

"She's safe, with her parents," Lisbon explained. "She'll be fine."

"Fine?" the Doctor repeated. "After seeing that? After looking in and seeing that her friend and her friend's family were torn to shreds, every inch of the room bathed in their blood? How can anyone be _fine_?"

"She's going to be getting counselling," Lisbon allowed.

"Because of what she saw," the Doctor asked, "or because of her partial amnesia?"

"How do you know about that?" Lisbon asked, frowning slightly.

"It's an understandable response," Jane cut in, sounding almost nonchalant. "You see something terrible and your mind can't handle it, so you suppress it."

"But that's not all, is it?" the Doctor continued. "Have you had time to talk to her, any of you? Because I'd guess that she's suppressing a lot more than just what she saw."

"What makes you say that?" Cho queried. The Doctor wasn't entirely sure he liked the look he was receiving. It was business-like, yes, but he suspected there was a touch of suspicion in there, and a touch was too much for his tastes.

"I'm clever, and I've seen this sort of thing before," the Doctor explained. "So I highly suggest that you go talk to her about what she _does_ remember, and you can leave Officer Waterer and me to seal off this room."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Jane asked, sipping his tea. "You'd like for us to go off and leave you alone here."

"Yes," the Doctor cut in swiftly. "I would. But I have a feeling you're not about to oblige me."

"Well, not all of us," Jane admitted. "Cho, you can go talk to the McDonald family. Lisbon and I will stay here."

"Jane!" Lisbon exclaimed. "You can't just…." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. It's not worth it. Cho, go see what you can find out. We'll meet you there once we've finished here."

"Right, boss."

The Doctor had moved so that he was blocking the entrance to the room again, knowing his words wouldn't keep them trapped in position forever. "I still can't let you in there," he said.

"Because the walls are bleeding?" Lisbon asked in tone that told the Doctor she thought he was nuts, no matter what the psychic paper had said. Not that he'd checked, but it had evidently sufficed, whatever it was.

Well, if it was too late to be thought sane, perhaps she'd humour him. "Yes," he said. "Because, from what I've seen and from what you've confirmed, it's not bleeding in, it's bleeding out. And it's not very strong anymore, but from what I can see, it's strong enough, and it would still be damaging to you."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. Jane caught her glance and shrugged. "He's not lying," he said. "He believes what he's telling you. Now his _name_ is a bit questionable, but I'm not about to quibble over formalities, are you?"

"What's wrong with his name?" Lisbon asked sceptically. "I've seen his ID, Jane. He has as much right to be here as you or me."

"Really?" Jane set his tea down on a shelf and walked closer. "And you believe everything you see?"

"I am still right here, you know," the Doctor said quietly.

That proved to be a mistake. "Okay, you know what?" Lisbon said suddenly, throwing up her arms. "I have a job to do, and I don't need you two holding me back. I want to find whoever did this, and I can't do that unless I go into that room." And before the Doctor could stop her, she dodged around him and slipped inside.

"No!" the Doctor cried out. He dashed in after her, gritting his teeth, and grabbed her arm. "You can't!"

"Let go of me," Lisbon ordered, trying to twist her way out of his grip as he started to pull her out. "You're ruining the evidence. You can't just—"

"Listen to me," the Doctor said, very clearly, his voice dark. He'd pulled her clear of the room now. "It's not safe, not yet."

"It's fine," Lisbon said simply. "I'm perfectly fine, except for a sore arm. Now let me go."

"Not until you promise not to go in there again."

"Of course I'm going to go in there again," Lisbon protested. "I need to. It's my job."

"And what's mine?" the Doctor snapped. "What did my ID say?"

"I—" Lisbon stopped fighting him, frowning. "I don't remember."

"Precisely," the Doctor said. "And that's why you can't go in there again, not until I tell you it's safe."

Jane looked intrigued now, and he wasn't bothering to hide it. "How did you do that?" he asked. "The mind trick?"

"It's not a mind trick, and it's not my doing," the Doctor answered simply, giving Lisbon a gentle push towards Jane. "Now get her out of here."

"No, no. I don't mean the memory loss. That's impressive, yes, and I'll be questioning you about that later, but right now I want to know how you convinced her to listen to you in the first place," Jane said. "Because as much as you're acting like you belong, you don't, and yet you managed to convince these people that you do. How?"

"I'm going to seal this off," the Doctor said pointedly, gesturing to the living room behind him, "and then I'm going to meet you at the McDonald residence. We're going to talk to Julia, and I'll see if I can recover anything, and if I can't, I won't have any reason to delay fixing this, and once I'm done in here, you can spend as much time in here as you like. Understand?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"I can explain later," the Doctor promised, "when I have the time. But right now, I don't."

"Fair enough," Jane agreed, backing off a good deal more quickly than the Doctor had expected. "Come along, Lisbon." He put his hands on her shoulders and started to steer her away.

"But…." Lisbon glanced back at the Doctor and the room over which he stood guard. "What exactly—?"

"All in good time," Jane said cheerily.

The Doctor was thankful when they were gone. It gave him time to think. A wound in time would account for the bleeding, yes, and the draining of the occupants of the room, siphoning off recent, rather inconsequential memories first, to be converted to energy. At least, that's all it took from an unshielded mind now. Back when the murders had first occurred, on the other hand….

But that was another thing, those murders. He didn't know what had caused them. Not a result of the wound in time, not if he had to guess. It was probably whatever had caused the wound in the first place. He would need to find out what was lost, and whether or not anything out of place was found. Just because the wound was bleeding out, after all, it didn't mean that nothing could slip in. And if the wound was drawing on past memories to heal itself, then it was bleeding history. It was bleeding out whatever it was taking in, trying to replace what it was losing—in this case, recent history. Little things, but history nonetheless. The trouble came in defining recent. If he was lucky, it was limited to the last hundred years. If he wasn't….

He hadn't known what he had been walking into when the TARDIS had first landed. She hadn't told him, beyond hinting at some curious reverberation readings she'd been getting, and all he'd checked before heading out the doors was the time and the place. She must have noticed that something was wrong and decided he needed a challenge. Not that he blamed her. He hadn't exactly been himself lately, allowing himself to mope—well, not _mope_, exactly; just…reminisce, thinking about past and present and future—around the TARDIS a bit, trying to convince himself that he _had_ done the right thing in turning Christina down. He didn't regret his decision, of course. He just…. Well, he was lonely. But that was no excuse for putting someone in danger by letting them travel with him. Still, the TARDIS had evidently had enough of his wanderings around in her corridors, muttering to himself about this and that, recalling his different companions and their reactions to one thing or another. But he'd found loads of things in there that he'd thought he'd lost. The swimming pool. The sick bay. What had once been the Central Library, before it had moved. And, among other things, one of his gardens, which he had spent the next day and a half weeding and sprucing up as best he could, but, unfortunately, he seemed to have lost his touch for horticulture.

Still. When the TARDIS had landed and encouraged him, in no uncertain terms, to go off and investigate, he'd done just that. He'd taken some readings on his sonic screwdriver, but it had kept cutting out on him, and he'd suspected that someone, nearby, had been using a hair dryer. But he'd gotten enough to know that something was wrong, and he'd followed the signal, spotty as it was, until he'd spotted the crowd. From there, it had been as simple was going up and demanding information.

And once he'd seen the room, well, then he'd noticed the bleeding. A bit of guesswork, dropping terms here and there as he tested the waters, and he'd gotten a better picture of it all. And _then_ he'd opened his mouth and reminded the arguing humans in front of him of the situation, and things had gotten worse, quickly. He was just glad that Jane hadn't come in after Lisbon. He would have had trouble dragging the two of them out, and who knew how much would be bled out of them by the time he got them to safety. His shields had held, thankfully. Well, he hadn't, at least, spotted any gaping holes in his memories. Not that it was exactly easy to find holes that he hadn't put there, but for a quick assessment, he'd say he was fine. He hadn't been exposed for an extended period of time.

He was interrupted from his internal musings when Officer Waterer returned, bringing with him boards to block off the doorway. "I take it Agent Lisbon has finished her assessment of the scene?" he asked.

"She's seen it, yes," the Doctor replied truthfully, neglecting to say that Lisbon wouldn't, by any stretch of the term, say that she was finished her assessment. He took hold of a sheet of plywood and grinned, taking in everything else the police officer had brought. "And you have everything we need, I see. Good lad! Now, let's get to it."

* * *

Cho met Jane and Lisbon just outside the door of the McDonald residence. "Julia's not talking. It's a complete blank now. Her parents aren't eager for her to have company, so they request that we see her individually. Perhaps you can make more sense of what she says than I can. But in the meantime, I've talked to Rigsby and Van Pelt to see what they can find out about Dr. Smith."

"You don't think he's legitimate?" Jane asked, sounding amused.

"I don't know why he would be here," Cho answered simply.

"So you don't think he's legitimate?"

"Let's just say that I want confirmation."

"You don't think he's legitimate."

"Jane," Lisbon broke in, sounding exasperated. "Just…go make yourself useful. Elsewhere. I'm going to talk to Julia and her parents."

"Yes, of course. Do you know, I just realized that I'd forgotten something, back…over…." Jane trailed off, pointing in the direction of the Williams' residence.

"Don't," Lisbon said. "Don't even think about it. No," she added, as Jane opened his mouth again. "I don't care. Don't."

"But I—"

"Cho, make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Sure thing, boss."

Lisbon groaned, rubbing her temples for a moment. Some day…. But not anytime soon, and dreaming of it wouldn't help. Cho and Jane had wandered off towards the school when she opened her eyes, so she turned her attention to the task at hand and rang the doorbell.

"Mr. McDonald?" she asked when the door opened. Displaying her badge, she continued, "I'm Agent Teresa Lisbon with the CBI. I'd like to speak with your daughter, if I may."

"Of course," he said, opening the door wider to allow her in. "But I don't know how much use you will find it. Julia's not been the same since…."

"I understand, Mr. McDonald, but I still need to hear what she has to say."

Lisbon may not have been a mother herself, but she knew Julia looked ill the moment she saw her. "Julia?" she asked, slowly approaching the bed with a bright smile on her face. "My name is Teresa Lisbon. I'm going to ask you a few questions, okay?"

Two large blue eyes stared at her for a moment, and then slowly the girl nodded.

"Can you tell me what you remember about the last time you were at Emma Williams's place?"

"We'd just dropped her off," Mrs. McDonald answered. "It was twenty after eight. Mark and I were going to be out of town, and Marianne, bless her, had agreed to keep her for the night, and she was going to go there for lunch as well, and—"

"I appreciate that you mean well, Mrs. McDonald, but I'm afraid that I need Julia to answer for herself."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." Mrs. McDonald looked a bit taken aback, a bit flustered, but she didn't protest.

"What did you see, Julia?" Lisbon continued.

The mouth opened, but no sound came out. Lisbon waited, and finally caught a faint whisper. "Bleeding."

"Can you tell me anything else?"

A slow shake of the head. "Only bleeding. Don't remember anything but the bleeding."

"We've spoken with her," Mr. McDonald put in. "I thought she'd fished the key out from the cubbyhole in the shed around back when no one answered the door, but when we looked later, it was still there, and Julia couldn't remember touching it. The door must have been unlocked. That's how the murderer got in, we figure. No signs of forced entry, the police said. And Jenny Blake swore up and down she didn't hear anything, and she was right next door. Ears like a bat, that woman. Not like old Jim and Ellie across the street, or Peter Mae from around the corner."

"Please, Mr. McDonald," Lisbon said. "I'd like to hear what happened from Julia herself."

"It's still bleeding," Julia muttered, restless now. Her eyes were wide and unfocussed. "The bleeding hasn't stopped. I'm still bleeding."

"Sh, sh, honey, it'll be all right," Mrs. McDonald said. She looked apologetically at Lisbon. "Dr. Brin's checked her over twice now. He thinks she's just reliving what she saw."

"Jenny was the one who found her," Mr. McDonald explained. "She was in the living room, screaming. Jenny said she was just frozen, standing there, staring, screeching like a banshee. She hadn't touched anything. Just…walked in and stopped. Jenny carried her out and phoned the police, then us."

"So much bleeding," Julia whispered, nervous fingers clutching at the blanket that covered her. "Too much bleeding."

"It's nightmares, we think," Mrs. McDonald added. "She just gets into these states. That's all she's been saying to us now. She told us more at first, when we picked her up from Jenny's, but she's just been getting worse. We can't get anything out of her now, not until the spells are over, and they're becoming more and more frequent. I'm sorry that we can't be of any more help to you."

"Need to stop the bleeding," Julia cried. "Have to stop it. Too much too soon. Stop the bleeding!"

"Hey, hey, Julia," Lisbon called softly, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Don't worry, honey. I'm going to stop the bleeding, okay? Everything will be all right. I'll stop it."

Julia had focussed on her, but now she shook her head, violently. "You can't," she insisted. "You can't stop it."

"Of course I can," Lisbon said. "My friends and I will be able to stop it."

"Maybe they can," Julia said, sounding doubtful, "but you can't."

"I'm going to try, all right?"

"But it won't work. You can't."

"Why not, Julia?" Lisbon finally asked, smiling through her confusion at the child's antics. "Why do you think I can't stop it?"

The answer was simple, and just as definitive as the earlier decree. "Because you're bleeding, too."

* * *

A/N: So, just a quick thanks to everyone who reviewed! It's much appreciated, and also the reason I decided to write another chapter of this before finishing up my other story, as I had wholly intended to do…. But it wasn't a terribly long wait, so it was worth it, wasn't it?


	3. Chapter 3

"Jane, what do you think you're doing?"

"Just a little investigative work," Jane answered, not bothering to look at Cho as he continued to scrutinize their surroundings.

"In a school playground."

"In an _empty_ school playground," Jane corrected. "But school's out, and it's a beautiful day, so why is it empty?"

"Maybe because parents are scared and are keeping their children inside," Cho pointed out. "School was cancelled because of the murders. What makes you think parents would let their children play unsupervised if they're too afraid to send them to school?"

"Well, there's that," Jane allowed, sounding slightly put out.

"Why? What's your theory?"

"No theory, not yet. No need for one, really. Because that's not the question I'm trying to answer."

"Should I even ask what question you are trying to answer?"

"The Doctor came from this direction," Jane said. "But there are plenty of places to park closer than this, which he would have known if someone had been giving him directions, as they did with us. And if someone had been driving him, they would have dropped him off closer to the site. That would support your theory that he's not really from wherever he says he is. But the _real_ question is," Jane concluded, finally getting to the point as he bent down to pick something up, "what lock does this fit?" He held up a silver key on a piece of string, letting it swing and turn to catch the light.

"How is that even relevant to the situation?" Cho asked bluntly.

"Our friend dropped it," Jane answered as he straightened up and pocketed his prize. "And if we find out what it opens, we'll find out who he really is and why he's involved in this and what part he actually plays."

* * *

Back in Sacramento, CA, Grace Van Pelt's phone beeped once and vibrated on her desk. She picked it up and read the message.

"Have you got anything, Grace?' Rigsby asked, looking over at her from his desk. "Did they turn up anything that was off the record? Because I can't find a similar case to this within the past fifty years."

Van Pelt frowned as she looked at the message again. "No, it's not about that," she murmured. "It's about that Dr. Smith who turned up. We knew what Cho had already guessed: that this guy's not who he says he is. But whoever he is, Jane says he's clean."

"When he's impersonating an officer?" Rigsby asked, sounding incredulous. "Cho said his ID looked credible enough; it was only the situation that gave him cause for alarm. If this guy's that good, this probably isn't the first time he's done something like this. So how does Jane figure that he's clean?"

"He doesn't say," Van Pelt answered with a shrug. "But Jane's Jane. I hate to admit it, but he's probably right."

"Then how are we supposed to find this guy if we don't have so much as his name? We couldn't find anything when we ran his alias."

"Sometimes we just have to be patient," Van Pelt reminded him. "If we just keep looking, something will turn up."

"Suppose you're right," Rigsby admitted, standing up. "But I'm going to get some coffee first. Want some?"

"Not right now, thanks," Van Pelt answered, turning back to her computer with a small sigh of frustration. "I'm going to try—"

There was a bit of commotion from outside. "I'm sorry, sir," came the distinct voice of one of the security guards, "but you can't go in there. If you continue on, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."

"Nonsense!" was the jovial response. "Besides, I won't be but a moment. Just need a brief little chitchat, nothing too long or convoluted." The owner of the voice ducked into view and grinned at them. "Hello!" he said cheerfully. "Agents Wayne Rigsby and Grace Van Pelt, correct?"

Van Pelt found her tongue first. "Yes, but who—?"

"I'm the Doctor," the man answered, coming over to shake her hand. "Good to meet you. Heard plenty. Don't worry," he added, catching sight of her face and clearly, though perhaps deliberately, misinterpreting the reason for her shock, "it's all been good things."

"Sorry," interrupted the security guard, coming in to remove the Doctor from their presence. "He got away from me."

"No. It's fine," Van Pelt said. "He can stay."

Rigsby looked like he was trying to stammer out a protest, but the guard's acknowledgement overrode whatever he may have said. When the guard had left, however, Rigsby opened his mouth to have his say.

He didn't get it. At least, not immediately. "Thank you," the Doctor said, cutting him off before he could begin. "Makes things a bit easier for me." He blew out a breath and suddenly looked serious. "I need you both to get to Bluewater, as soon as you can."

"What?" Rigsby demanded. "But you…. You can't just…. What do you—?"

"Why?" Van Pelt queried, breaking through Rigsby's protests.

The Doctor looked between the two of them, as if he was weighing his options and deciding how to answer the question. "Because things are escalating," he replied slowly. "And none of it's adding up. Well, not to anything particularly pretty." He grinned then. "And, well, you'll serve as a useful distraction."

"To what?" Rigsby asked, sounding like he needed a good deal more convincing than Van Pelt.

The Doctor hesitated again. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm getting the impression that the two of you are a bit more open-minded than the rest of your team, yeah?"

"In what way?" Van Pelt asked carefully.

The Doctor shrugged. "In any way or in every way, whichever you prefer. Let's put it this way: it's not a coincidence that you can't find anything on me, though I can assure you that I'm not a criminal. Well, not really. Well, not without reason. Well, nothing too serious, anyway. Well," he added again, pausing slightly, "I _suppose_ that would depend on your definition of serious, but…." He shook his head. "Anyway, that's beside the point. Thing is, however good at sleight of hand as I am, a few simple tricks aren't going to get me out of this mess, and I need you lot to distract them while I wrap this up, before everything falls apart and into place."

"Why should we listen to you?" Rigsby asked, scoffing. "You aren't even who you say you are."

"Oh, I'm exactly who I say I am," the Doctor countered. "I'm the Doctor. And, as such, I'll suggest that you don't try to overtax your mind too much just yet and instead simply go along with what I say. Much easier in the long run, and you can puzzle over who you think I really am when this is all said and done and over." There was a brief pause, then, "And, I'm asking you to listen to me." Another pause, followed by a short, rather stiff, "Please."

Van Pelt reached for her cell phone, but the Doctor stretched out a hand to stop her. "You…may want to wait. Just…a few minutes. I think I got here a little early."

"How did you get here so fast, anyway?" Rigsby asked. "I thought—"

"_Yeah_," the Doctor interrupted, drawing out the word, "y'see, that's the sort of thing you should avoid thinking about right now."

"Sir, we have to ask you a few questions," Van Pelt began, standing, and watching as Rigsby moved to block the Doctor's exit.

"Oh, no," the Doctor said, a grin still on his face, although it looked a bit tentative now. "You really don't want to do that. Well, not yet."

"We can charge you for impersonating an officer," Rigsby put in. "It would be in your best interest to cooperate."

"But that's not…." The Doctor trailed off. He looked away for a moment, and then back at them. "If I let you lock me up here," he questioned, sounding as if he thought he could bargain with them, "will you still go to Bluewater?"

"Not unless we had reason to," Van Pelt answered.

"Ah." The Doctor looked between the two of them again. "But you will otherwise?"

"We have work to do here," Van Pelt replied evenly.

"Ah," the Doctor said again. "So believing me and going along with what I said was all a show. Right. I ought to be able to recognize that by now." He reached up one hand to scratch the back of his head. "I suppose there's no way to convince you to go along anyhow?"

"We're going to be asking the questions, Doctor," Van Pelt answered. "You have some explaining to do."

"Don't I always," the Doctor muttered. But despite his misgivings, he didn't resist as they led him to an interrogation room for questioning.

* * *

The Doctor, after finishing up sealing off the Williams' living room and getting directions from Officer Waterer, found Lisbon at the McDonald residence. He hadn't thought to knock, though in retrospect, he supposed it would have been a nice courtesy. But it was too late for that now; he'd already barged in on them, just in time to catch Julia's last words.

"Because you're bleeding, too," the child solemnly informed Lisbon.

The Doctor froze, turning slowly on his heels to look at Lisbon. _Really_ look at her. And to his horror, Julia McDonald was right. Agent Teresa Lisbon was bleeding. The exposure to the wound hadn't just stripped off a recent surface memory, like he'd hoped. She'd been cut. Oh, it wasn't much. Hardly a scratch. But it didn't _need_ to be much, and that was the problem. One opening, no matter how tiny, was enough. Small things would go first. Things that really didn't matter. She probably didn't remember what she'd had for breakfast that morning, for instance. One memory, one impression, one feeling at a time—it would slowly drain out of her.

But the opening was small, and that was an advantage. It gave him a bit more time. If he worked fast, if he figured this out quickly enough, he'd be able to stitch her up before she lost anything else, anything important.

But the child, on the other hand….

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said. "I am so, so sorry."

Four pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. One indignant, two startled, and one blank.

"I'm the Doctor," the Doctor said. "I'm going to see if there's anything that I can do to help."

Julia's mother looked a bit flustered, but she didn't stop him as he sat down on the bed to get a better look at her child. "We didn't send for…."

"Dr. John Smith," Lisbon explained, sounding exasperated, "is here to help us investigate the case."

"More to the point," the Doctor corrected, "I'm here to stop the bleeding."

Julia's gaze shifted, becoming analytical. Then she blinked, and shook her head, and looked at her parents. "It happened again, didn't it?" Her voice was very small, and she sounded very scared—quite unlike she'd sounded earlier.

"It's over now, sweetheart," her father said, hugging her. "You'll be okay. I promise."

The Doctor felt something tug at his hearts. It was a fool's promise, that. And it was one he had made many times. But it was also one he hadn't always been able to keep, no matter how hard he had tried.

He hadn't had a lot of time to analyze the situation, but he didn't particularly like what he saw. So much of the child was a shell. She was struggling to keep hold of her own self, but she kept losing that battle.

Trouble was, he wasn't convinced that, as a shell, she was particularly _empty_.

"I'm the Doctor, Julia," he said again, slowly. "I want to see if I can do anything to help you."

The girl looked at him from the protection of her father's arms. "Can you help me remember?" she asked softly.

"I'd like to try," the Doctor answered. He reached into one pocket and pulled out his stethoscope. Not for show, of course, though it would no doubt help. He wanted to use his handy-dandy stethoscope for one of its intended purposes: to listen to Julia's heart. If something had taken her over completely, and was a very smart being, it would have kept enough residual memory to play the part of the child. And sometimes, when said being was accessing those memories, unless said being was one of the elite in terms of possession skills, it became too hard to keep up other aspects of the farce. A steady heartbeat, for instance, would not be necessary. Providing the heart was still beating in the first place, that is. Some things out there didn't require living flesh.

"Hold on," Lisbon said, spying the stethoscope. "You're actually a qualified doctor?"

"Oh yes," the Doctor said, fitting the stethoscope to his ears and placing the disc on Julia's chest. "I'm qualified in quite a lot of things, though to varying degrees. Medicine, physics, chemistry, biology, exobiology, linguistics, aeronautics, mathematics, history, detective work…." He gave her a grin—partially because he had never really _studied _criminology, per se, but rather learned it on the go, picking things up over the years—but his mind wasn't really on what he was saying. He was too busy listening.

There was still a heartbeat. Bit thready, but nevertheless present. That ruled out a good deal of things he knew of, if indeed the poor girl was possessed. Best to check the pupils next. Granted, it wasn't as much of a giveaway when the possessor was not in control, but he knew what to look for, providing the child didn't resist. Pocketing the stethoscope, the Doctor pulled out a penlight.

"Is Julia going to be all right?" Mrs. McDonald asked worriedly. "Dr. Brin said—"

"That she was physically perfectly healthy?" the Doctor guessed, noting that Julia's pupils reacted normally. At this rate, he'd have no choice but to scan the child with his sonic screwdriver. At least then he'd know, with certainty, whether or not she was fully human. "Mrs. McDonald, I have hardly conducted an examination sufficient to contradict the good Dr. Brin's opinion, but from what I've seen, I'm inclined to share it. Julia is, physically, healthy." Which could mean that, if anything was inside of her, it _needed_ her healthy and was therefore keeping her that way. But if that were the case, there ought to be other side effects.

Trouble was, they varied from species to species.

"And mentally?" Mr. McDonald pressed. "Or are you not properly qualified to give us an opinion on that?"

"Oh, I'm qualified," the Doctor assured him. "I'm just not sure I've seen enough yet." Julia was watching him, still looking like nothing more than a worried, scared little girl. "How do you feel, Julia?"

"I want to remember," she answered quietly, "but I can't."

"She's scared," Mrs. McDonald pointed out bluntly.

"Yes, yes," the Doctor said, waving that off, "but that's not what I mean. Do you feel healthy? Energetic? Sleepy? Sick to your stomach?"

There was a pause. Then, "I'm tired."

"Tired or sleepy?"

"Isn't that the same thing?" Lisbon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You can be tired and not be able to sleep," the Doctor reminded her.

"Just tired," Julia replied softly.

"I see." The Doctor thought for a moment. "Mrs. McDonald, could I trouble you for a cup of tea?"

She looked startled, but nodded. "Milk or sugar?" she asked, rising.

"Neither, thank you." The Doctor waited until she had gone and then turned to Julia's father. "Do you mind if I speak with Julia alone for a moment?"

"I'd prefer not," Mr. McDonald admitted, looking uncomfortable.

"It's all in the interest of patient confidentiality," the Doctor informed him, even though he intended nothing of the sort. "Two minutes?"

"It's okay, Daddy. You can wait outside. I don't mind." Julia twisted around to kiss her father's cheek. "I'll be okay."

With Mr. McDonald out of the room as well, the Doctor turned to Lisbon. "I'm not leaving," she informed him flatly.

"You're sure about that?" the Doctor asked.

"Quite." Lisbon folded her arms.

Oh, well. You win some, you lose some. He didn't have time to be picky. And Lisbon was involved in this anyway, so he'd probably have to turn the sonic screwdriver on her sooner or later. Replacing his penlight in his pocket, the Doctor pulled out his oft-used device. "This won't hurt," the Doctor told the curious Julia as he turned the sonic screwdriver on and swept it up and down her blanket-wrapped figure.

"What is that thing?" Lisbon inquired curiously. "And what's it doing?"

The Doctor frowned, reaching to change the settings on the sonic screwdriver. He scanned Julia again.

"Am I going to be okay?" Julia asked, watching as the Doctor fiddled again with the settings.

The Doctor looked at her for a moment. "Well, you're completely human," he said.

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Obviously. Now if you're going to humour her, can you at least do it in an acceptable way?"

The Doctor turned to look at Lisbon. "I'm not _humouring _her," he said, a bit testily. "I'm just…." He shook his head. "Never mind. Julia, just after I came in here, you asked if it had happened again. What did you mean?"

Julia looked uncomfortable and started playing with her hands. "Sometimes I…say things. I know I'm saying them, and I want to say them, because they're right, but it's frightening, because when I say them, I know what I mean, but now, after it's over, I don't. Like I was dreaming, and then I woke up, except it was all real. Does that make sense?"

Oh. Oh dear. "Unfortunately." The Doctor sighed. So much of Julia had bled out, and she was still bleeding. She'd lost all the little things. She had knowledge, and no memory of how she'd gotten that knowledge. She was left with facts, and memories of what she had been told, and her mind was trying to compensate for its losses. But it couldn't. She couldn't dream; her imagination had been stolen from her. She wasn't experiencing daymares, like he had first hoped. Her mind was fighting back. It was trying to pull back what it had lost, from where it had lost it. And it was pulling back things that weren't hers. Her mind couldn't cope with that.

If he didn't put up a barrier between her mind and the wound in time that was draining her, she would die.

But if he did, she wouldn't...

But he had to. He didn't want any more death.

"Dr. Smith?"

The Doctor blinked. "Sorry?"

"Would you care to explain yourself?" Lisbon repeated.

He hadn't been talking out loud, had he? He certainly hoped not. "It is a, shall we say, mental problem," the Doctor admitted slowly. "You remember what I'd said earlier, about the walls bleeding?"

He didn't miss Julia's startled look, but if Lisbon noticed it, she gave no sign. "I am not going to listen to you go on about that," she said stiffly, "when we both know it's utter nonsense."

The Doctor frowned at her. "If it's utter nonsense, explain to me how Julia here can be going on about the same thing."

"But I didn't know why I was saying it," Julia reminded him in a small voice. "I mean, I know now…." She stopped. "I know there's too much bleeding, but I don't know why."

Lisbon sighed and sat down on the bed beside Julia. "I'm afraid that all the blood—" she began.

The Doctor didn't let her finish. "She didn't say blood. She said bleeding." He looked at Julia for confirmation, who nodded. "See? Bleeding. Not blood. This has nothing to do with the blood." He hesitated. "Well, I don't think it does. Really shouldn't rule that out quite yet. But you ought to learn not to jump to conclusions. You have absolutely no idea what you're dealing with. _I'm _not even entirely sure what we're dealing with, but _you_ are most definitely _not_ qualified to be jumping to conclusions before I even give you all the facts."

Lisbon snorted. "And you are qualified to assess the situation, I suppose? Then you're qualified for an awful lot of things for a man who can't yet be forty."

The Doctor's expression lost its seriousness for the moment, becoming clearly amused. "Who says I can't be forty?"

"Are you?"

"No."

"Then that's my point."

"Not really. Do you judge books by their cover, too?"

"No." But the answer came quickly and sounded rather defensive, and the Doctor suspected she'd done it at least once in her life, dismissing something perfectly acceptable because it didn't look like fit her expectations.

"You're judging me by my appearance."

"I am not!" Lisbon protested. Regaining her authoritative tone, she continued, "I was merely making an observation."

"An incorrect one."

"Oh? And how old are you, then?"

The Doctor grinned. "A bit more than forty."

Their banter was interrupted by Mr. and Mrs. McDonald, the latter of whom was carrying the cup of tea the Doctor had requested. "Is she going to be all right?" Mrs. McDonald asked as she handed it over.

Ah. Yes. He'd let himself get distracted, hadn't he? His two minutes had slipped by. "I can't really make a definite assessment at this time," he admitted slowly. He took a sip of his tea; quite acceptable, thankfully. He'd had far worse. "I would like to check her over again when I can." He paused. "Preferably very soon." Before putting a mental wall around Julia's mind lost all chance of saving her.

"It's too late for me, isn't it?" Julia asked softly. Her hands began their frantic twisting of the blanket again. "Too much has bled out. I'm lost."

"I never said that," the Doctor said immediately.

"You didn't have to," she answered, shrinking away from him again. "I can see it in your eyes. So much for so little. Make sure it's worth the cost."

"Don't pay her any mind," Mr. McDonald said, placing a hand on the Doctor's shoulder, evidently noticing how shaken he was by Julia's pronouncement. "It's another spell. It'll be over soon enough."

They didn't understand. How could they? Julia knew more than them, and she couldn't understand it. She could hardly explain it. And no matter what they did, no matter how they sheltered her, surrounding her with their love and caring and good intentions…. None of it mattered. Julia was right. She'd been forced to see what he didn't want to.

She was lost.

Even if he put a wall up now, to keep her contained, he would only be shutting her up in herself. She'd drown. She'd crawl so deep inside herself that she'd never come back out. She'd live, yes, but she'd be trapped, her own body a cage, a prison, something she had no control over.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor whispered, looking sadly at Julia. He wasn't certain how much of her was actually left. He didn't expect it was a lot, even if it was clearly enough for her to gain control every once in a while, though she couldn't keep it, what with everything that was being pulled into her head.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. and Mrs. McDonald. We may find it necessary to question your daughter again when she is feeling up to it, but thank you for letting us see her now. We'll see ourselves out." Pulling the Doctor with her, Lisbon left the room. When they were safely out of the house, she turned on him. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" she hissed.

"What?"

"Back there! What were you trying to pull?"

The Doctor stared at her blankly. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was another baffled, "What?"

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Pretending you're a qualified doctor, for one. Going on about bleeding, for another, when we know it's just a child's fantasy. And most importantly, letting that poor girl's parents think, even for a moment, that she's about to die!"

Oh.

Somehow, the Doctor had a feeling that Lisbon wasn't in the mood for his insistences that A, he _was_ qualified, or two, that the bleeding was far from just a figment of a child's imagination, let alone that Julia really wasn't nearly as well as she appeared to be. She was losing the very thing that made her unique. She was losing herself, in a void far bigger than she. And she was too far gone, now, for him to fish her back, whether he liked it or not.

None of the potential solutions that had crossed his mind since he had first set eyes on her would actually work, so he was still hoping that he would come up with one that would.

He just seemed to be having a bit of trouble with that.

Which meant he was running out of time.

Which meant Julia would, very soon, be irreversibly right: she was lost.

But if he couldn't save her, then he could at least save Lisbon. There'd certainly be no consequences of throwing up a mental wall around her. She wouldn't have lost enough to cause her mind to try to compensate, as Julia's had, so she had no ties to the wound and wherever it was bleeding into.

"There are things," the Doctor started slowly, "that you lot would have a good deal of difficulty explaining away."

Lisbon gave him an exasperated look. "Don't give me that crap. I've worked with Jane for long enough."

"I'm just saying," the Doctor began again, "that it wouldn't hurt for you to be a little more open-minded about the situation."

"Dr. Smith, I'm as open-minded as I need to be. Now would you kindly explain yourself?"

The Doctor sighed. "Julia cut herself wide open," he said, "and all she could do was put a Band-Aid on it. She couldn't cover the wound, and she couldn't apply pressure, and she couldn't temporarily cut off the circulation. She just had to wait. Now, she's nearly drained, and it's too late for me to do anything."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "If you're working with us on this case, I want confirmation from your superiors."

"Thing is," the Doctor continued, pointedly ignoring Lisbon, "with her mind trying to compensate for everything it was losing, Julia absorbed something she shouldn't have. I haven't had time to analyze that wound. I've hardly had a chance to get a proper look at it. Now, either it's not a very big one, or it's starting to scab over, because it hasn't attracted the attention of Reapers, but there's quite a difference when dealing with the two, so I'd like to get a proper look. Trouble is, I don't know what caused the wound, or where it leads to, and Julia was my best shot at that—finding out, I mean—but she warned me not to. Do you recall that? _Make sure it's worth the cost_. I don't know how much she saw of me, but she evidently saw enough to know that I'd poke my nose in and do more than just get my feet wet. So I listened to her. I left it. I didn't dive in to find out what I could from her, because she asked me not to."

The Doctor was spared whatever sarcastic remark Lisbon was about to make when her mobile rang. She settled with glaring at him as she answered, "Lisbon here." There was a pause, then a confused, "What?" followed by an exasperated, "Look, I'm in no mood for—" after which there was silence.

The Doctor did not find this to be a particularly good sign.

Ten to one, whoever else Lisbon worked with had found out, in no uncertain terms, that he was an imposter. Which meant that the little cooperation he'd been getting from her was going to end, effective immediately. He'd be better off to slip away now to find out what he could than to wait around here. Then, when he came back, he'd either have enough evidence to convince Lisbon to trust him, if only for however long it took to fix this all up, or he'd be able to fix everything up prior to Lisbon's little scratch amounting to anything serious. Or, he'd find himself improvising, coming up with a brilliantly clever plan on the spot.

While the latter seemed the most likely, all three scenarios meant he had to leave. Now.

The Doctor edged away from Lisbon and started off towards the TARDIS, figuring he'd be better off avoiding her and any of her colleagues at the moment.

Looking back on it all, the Doctor knew he really would have been better off if he had never opened his mouth and started telling them the truth right off the bat. A few lies here, a few charades there, a bit of truth mixed in—that was much more effective, at least in this day and age. Once he could start proving that he wasn't just inventing whatever he was telling them, people listened to him. That, or he had to wait until they reached the mental state of panicked sheep and were looking for a leader, in which case he could just step right up, but as that tended to involve injury, spatial or temporal displacement, unexplainable alien life, inexplicable behaviour of matter and other mysterious things, or threat or reality of death, he would really rather that he didn't have to wait for it to reach that stage. Fear was a good thing, in small amounts, but too much was crippling.

And when the fear in question appeared, by all logical sense, to be an irrational one, well, it was more likely to be dismissed. Anyone who continued to irritate that unreasonable, unnerving feeling, provoking it into being, was looked upon as suspicious, as a bringer of said fear, and was dealt with accordingly.

One would think that, after so many centuries, he'd learn.

But somehow, he never did.

* * *

A/N: _"So much for so little. Make sure it's worth the cost."_ What Julia means here probably isn't very clear, but she's not in the best state to be clear at the moment. There are probably a few interpretations of it that are perfectly acceptable (I can think of more than one, at least), and I'll just expand on that for those who read it and still feel it didn't make any sense at all. It could be that, if the Doctor tried to help her, the helping would take more out of her than what she'd get out of it, and she'd be left worse off than before. It could be that if he meddles with this wound too much, he'll get the same result—he means to help, but he ends up hurting, and it would be better off if he did nothing. Those are both along the same lines, of course, and I'm sure there are other levels of meaning within the words, but it would take far too long to explore all of those right now, so I'll leave you to it, shall I?


	4. Chapter 4

"Who found Julia?" Jane asked as he started down the street. "Because there were other prints in that blood. Someone came and fetched her. Who was it?"

"A neighbour. Jenny Blake. Officer Waterer's spoken with her. She says she doesn't know anything. Heard Julia screaming and came over to find out what was going on, then brought her back to her place and phoned the police."

"Excellent. Let's go talk to her." Jane picked up his pace. "She's in the blue house nearest to us, correct?"

They reached it, and Cho checked the numbers. "Seems like," he said, as Jane had expected. After all, Jenny, as the first person to get to Julia, would have to live in the blue house. The front yard was well-kept, the outward appearance neat and tidy. The car in the driveway was about ten years old, give or take, and was a bright red. But said car was not blocking the way to the Williams' residence, and the route from the front door was to the Williams' living room was the shortest he could see, and he'd lay money on the fact that a child's scream, once established that it was a scream of true horror, would draw the attention of everyone within earshot.

"Mrs. Blake?" Cho asked once his knocking had drawn the attention of the house's sole occupant.

"Ms," she corrected, "but I'd rather just be called Jenny. You're investigators, I'm assuming?"

"CBI, ma'am," Cho replied, showing her his badge. "I'm Agent Kimball Cho, and this is Patrick Jane."

"Please, come in." Jenny opened the door, stepping back to allow them entrance.

Jane took his chance to get an impression of her and her life, judging by her belongings and appearance. Single, but she'd been married, once, and had gone back to her maiden name. She'd found her life stressful, and the worry lines showed on her face, making her look older than she actually was. But she had tried to make the best of it, and she did. She was climbing out of whatever rut she'd found herself in. She was trying to make her life better.

"I don't know what I can tell you that I haven't told Officer Waterer," Jenny admitted, although she explained her story again anyway.

Jane left Cho to do the talking, although he did keep an ear on the story. In the meantime, he was more interested in other things. Such as the fact that Jenny's kitchen window—he couldn't resist making a cup of tea—looked over at the Williams' living room. With the curtains pulled, she'd be able to see everything.

"Quick question," Jane said, re-entering Jenny's living room with his tea in hand. "What do you do for a living?"

It was a moment before the surprised Jenny found her tongue. "I work part-time over at Polly's. The café," she added, remembering that they weren't familiar with the area. "Otherwise, I'm a freelance journalist."

"Were you getting ready for work when you found Julia?"

Jenny shook her head. "I take the afternoon shift on Tuesdays and Thursdays and every second Saturday, mornings every other day of the week, and evenings when she needs me."

"And what was your relationship with the Williams family?"

"We were neighbours. Friends. Why?"

"Oh, just curious," Jane replied. "Did they close their living room curtains often?"

"At night," Jenny answered, looking uncertain of where the line of questioning was going. "But Marianne likes the sunshine. She always opened them early."

"So when you noticed they were closed, were you curious?"

Jenny gave an apologetic shrug. "Not terribly. I assumed that Marianne was having another one of her spells. She does—did—every now and again."

"And did you notice anything unusual in the days leading up to the murders?" Jane asked in the same light voice he'd used before.

"No. Not that I can remember."

"Marianne's spells," Cho repeated. "What can you tell me about them?"

"Not a lot," Jenny admitted. "They didn't like to burden anyone with their problems, that family. But Marianne…she'd get dizzy. She'd have migraines, aches, that sort of thing. Sometimes it kept her bedridden. But I'm not sure what the cause of her condition was."

Jane was back to examining the pictures. He picked up one and showed it to Jenny. "Who's with you here?" he asked, although he anticipated the answer.

"Marianne," Jenny admitted. "She'd hoped getting out of the house for a bit would help, and she asked me to go with her. It was just a day trip. Marianne had a passion for geology, so we spent the day in Joshua Tree National Park. But she wasn't too well, even then, though she did put on a brave face. I almost think it did her more harm than good. She was terribly tired by the end of it all."

The questioning continued, Jane occasionally interrupting Cho to ask a question of his own. Jenny endured it bravely, answering methodically, almost as if she was resigned to the fact that she couldn't change anything. But sometimes she couldn't give them an answer. She simply couldn't remember. And Jane found that to be the most curious thing of all.

* * *

"Do you, or do you not, claim to be Dr. John Smith?" Rigsby asked, crossing his arms and looking directly at the Doctor.

"Well, yes," the Doctor admitted, knowing that he couldn't dispute Rigsby's use of 'claim'. "But I—"

"And were you, or were you not, impersonating an officer of the law?"

"Well, to a certain extent, I _suppose_—"

"Yes or no?"

"But it's not really as _definitive _as you—"

"Yes or no?"

The Doctor sighed. "Yes."

"And did it never occur to you that there are consequences for such a thing?"

"Of course it occurred to me," the Doctor answered, sounding vaguely surprised. "What do you take me for?" People had this preconceived notion that consequences were bad things, but they weren't, not necessarily. They were just outcomes. Naturally he'd considered the outcomes of using the psychic paper, and it had, until just now, worked as he'd expected. It had gotten him into places, offering just enough conviction for him to move about freely.

"Then you willingly and knowingly committed a crime?"

Then again, humans being humans, consequences _would_ keep its negative meaning. "It's not like you think it is," the Doctor tried. "I mean, did my identification say, exactly, that I was an officer of the law?"

Rigsby checked his papers. "Inspector John Smith, Scotland Yard," he reported. "Special services unit. Apparently known as the Doctor?" Rigsby looked up at him for confirmation.

Oh. The psychic paper wasn't supposed to get him _into_ trouble; it was supposed to get him _out _of it. What were things coming to these days? Although…. "Hold on," the Doctor started, "that can't be what it said. Your Agent Lisbon was calling me Dr. Smith, not Inspector Smith, and not Doctor. So you must have your facts wrong." Or the psychic paper had been saying two different things at once, which was the more probable reason, but he didn't fancy explaining that to them at the moment. He was far better off pursuing the idea that they had their facts wrong. "Can you get me confirmation on what my ID supposedly said?"

Rigsby looked uncomfortable. "Well, I—"

"That's what I thought." The Doctor leaned forward to look at Rigsby. "I'll be honest with you, shall I? I'm not with Scotland Yard. I never was. Frankly, I don't think they like me very much, if they know of me at all. But as much as it pains me to admit it, I've worked for the government. They still call me in for help. And sometimes I'm sent off to look at things and do a little investigating of my own." Well, he hadn't been sent out on his own whenever he checked into something for UNIT, in both recent times or past, but half-truths were sufficient, weren't they? "Surely you've heard of a little thing called a cover story?"

Rigsby stared at him. Finally, "Are you saying—?"

"You know, I'm not sure," the Doctor interrupted. "It's a bit hard to tell what I'm saying sometimes. There's so many ways to say it and only so much time. But as long as you're willing to listen to me, won't you at least hear me out?"

There was a pause. "Are you willing to make an official statement?"

"At an unofficial meeting? Not so much. I don't really fancy all this official stuff. If we're going to have a bit of a chat, we might as well all be here talking face to face. Don't you agree, Agent Van Pelt? Why not join us?" The Doctor addressed this last remark over Rigsby shoulder, knowing Van Pelt was watching them from behind the two-way mirror. When this elicited no response within the next thirty seconds, however, the Doctor continued with his prompting. "Oh, come on. You're curious, aren't you? Burning with questions? You know I'm me, and—" The Doctor stopped. "Oh. Oh, you didn't. Tell me you di— Oh, what's the point? I know you did. Agent Grace Van Pelt, I _told_ you I was here early. Did you _really_ need to phone Lisbon _now_? I'll have you know I still have the marks from those handcuffs." And a few other bruises from where she'd jumped him from behind. Funny thing, though, those handcuffs. He couldn't always get out of them. Oh, he'd spent long enough with Houdini to know _how_, but that was one thing he hadn't quite managed to master, even if he could get out of other contraptions easily enough. That was something River Song had apparently known well.

That, unfortunately, meant that it probably wasn't about to change, or she wouldn't have been so certain when she'd put them on him. Especially seeing as she'd followed that up by keeping the sonic screwdrivers out of reach while she'd wired herself into the mainframe in his place. She'd known he would do everything he could to save her, and he had, but it wasn't….

"Dr. Smith?"

"Sorry," the Doctor said. "Got a bit…distracted there. And would you mind just calling me the Doctor? Seeing as you're questioning my identity, I mean." And the fact that he just preferred it, but they didn't need to know everything. "But even if Grace doesn't decide to grace us with her presence—" and he couldn't suppress his grin; he really couldn't "—you, at least, could hear me out. Yes, I came all the way from Bluewater, and yes, I came here specifically to fetch you two. And yes, I have a good reason for it: I need your help."

Van Pelt came in then, still holding her mobile. "Let me speak to him for a while, Rigsby," she requested steadily, staring at the Doctor.

"Come to join the party after all, have you?" the Doctor asked with false cheer, even though he knew that look well enough to know that she wasn't planning to do anything quite so innocent.

"Alone," Van Pelt added, in a tone that the Doctor took to mean that she intended for Rigsby to watch the exchange to see what he could make of it.

Well, at least it would be an interesting one.

Once Rigsby had complied, Van Pelt sat opposite the Doctor, all straight-backed and serious. He leaned back in the chair and turned so he could put his feet up on the table. She was business-like enough for the two of them, and he could make his point far better by dropping his nonchalant manner when the time was right.

"Well?" Van Pelt asked.

"Well what?"

"How did you do it?"

"Do what?" That was something Van Pelt may perceive as a bit annoying, but it was perfectly reasonable. He wasn't completely sure what she was there to confront him about. He could think of, oh, five, ten things that would merit this sort of thing. Who he was. What he was doing. Where he'd come from. Why he was there. How he'd managed to fool them. How he was involved. What he wanted. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

"How did you plan this all so perfectly?"

The Doctor blinked at her. He hadn't been expecting that question. "Beg pardon?"

"The two of you. How did you mange to get the timing so perfect?"

Oh.

Right.

The Doctor sucked in a breath. "It's not like you think it is," he said. "It's…complicated. Right now, I'm in two places at once. Possibly more, but at least two." Not that she'd make any sense of that, since it was the truth, but at least if they locked him up and left him alone, he'd be able to escape, and with any luck they'd follow him to Bluewater anyhow.

All he knew was that they'd turned up. He wasn't sure how. He just knew that it was his doing, and that he had to get it done again, or he would be in trouble. Big trouble. Trouble as in irritation causing the wound to fester, not heal. And the last thing he needed was for it to get infected. That…would _really_ be unpleasant, and possibly rather messy. To put it mildly.

"So you're a magician?" The question was asked with heavy scepticism tempered with a healthy dose of genuine curiosity that couldn't quite be curbed.

"If you mean, can I pull a coin from your ear, then yes. But that's only sleight of hand tricks, and what you call magic is really only science," the Doctor replied. "At least, in my experience. And I've had a rather lot of experience. So if by magician, you mean scientist, then I suppose you could call me that if you like."

"But you'd like for me to believe that you're here with us now _and_ with Agent Lisbon in Bluewater?"

"If you'd like to believe the truth, then yes," the Doctor answered shortly.

"Why don't you tell me what's going on, Dr. Smith?"

"Just the Doctor," the Doctor corrected. "And, I'm not entirely sure that you'd understand."

"But I'm listening, so you might as well try."

The Doctor sighed and sat up in his chair. "Time was wounded," he said, very carefully. "I don't know how. I had a few vague theories—well, just a half of one, actually—but it didn't pan out, which I expected, because it didn't make sense. I need to find a way to heal it, quickly and cleanly, but I can't do that until I can figure out what _caused_ the wound in the first place, and I would really rather be the one to stitch it up before something else comes along to do it a different, distinctly less pleasant, way." He paused. "I was still looking into things when you turned up. They didn't believe you, of course. It's complete and utter nonsense. No one can be in two places at once. But I knew I had been, because I saw how you looked at me. You recognized me. You could hardly believe it yourself, but you didn't seem to have any doubt that it was me. But, to make a long story short, I realized then and there that I had to come and fetch you, so I went at the earliest opportunity, and here I am. A bit _too _early, like I've said, but it's already been done, so I can't change that."

There was a frown on Van Pelt's face. "I see," she finally said. But before she could continue, the Doctor interrupted her.

"No, you don't," he insisted. "I don't understand why you humans always pretend to understand things when you really don't. You don't see any logic in anything I've said. But it's not that I haven't been making perfect sense. You just haven't been able to grasp my meaning. The concepts are too complex for you." He stopped for a moment. "But that's okay," he added. "It really is. So long as you don't muck about in things you don't understand, I don't mind. But right now, I need you to trust me, and I need you to believe me when I say that it is imperative that you get to Bluewater as soon as you can, because if you don't, your inability to understand everything I've been saying will just make things ten thousand times worse."

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but that's not my call."

The Doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. "This was a lot easier the last time I had to go through a mess like this, making sure everything fell into place. Even if it was close for a while there. But I managed it, and Sally Sparrow pieced it all together just like she had the first time through…." The Doctor stopped suddenly, realizing he'd been muttering when he really shouldn't have been.

But it was too late. He could see that from the look on Grace Van Pelt's face. She'd heard him.

The Doctor dearly hoped, right then and there, that Sally Sparrow and that other lad who'd been with her when he'd run into her oh so long ago hadn't done anything he'd regret.

But he couldn't quite suppress the gnawing feeling he had, the one that was telling him that if he didn't watch what he said more carefully, he'd have to explain more things than he'd care to, even when, timewise, he really oughtn't to explain anything at all, because Rigsby and Van Pelt hadn't really understood anything that first time around.

No matter what he did, though, he couldn't shake the feeling that things were changing on him. And he was too afraid to look to be certain.

* * *

"Who the hell are you?" Lisbon demanded. She'd had enough of this. She wanted answers, _now_.

"Ow. Do you think you could just shift your weight a little?" came the somewhat pained response from the man who called himself Dr. John Smith.

Lisbon didn't move. "Just tell me who you really are. Now."

A sigh. "The Doctor."

"Dr. _who_?"

The man beneath her tried to laugh. "Oh, that never gets old, does it? No. It's just the Doctor. Nothing more, nothing less." A pause. "May I ask what brought on this sudden bout of questioning?"

"I got a call," Lisbon answered sharply, "regarding your partner."

"What?" The Doctor, if she must call him that, sounded genuinely surprised. "I don't have a partner."

"Your associate, companion, whatever you call him. We have him in custody."

"_What_? But that's _impossible_! I don't have a—" And abruptly, the Doctor stopped his protests. Then, cautiously, "This…_companion_ of mine. What's he look like?"

"Oh, as if you didn't know." Lisbon stood up and pulled the Doctor to his feet. He staggered slightly, caught off balance when she didn't release her hold on him—or the handcuffs she now had him in.

"But I'm more careful than that," the Doctor protested. "I must have let on what I did on purpose. This is all _deliberate_. For some reason. Just…one that I haven't figured out yet. So you could _tell_ me if you know," he added.

"Just start walking," Lisbon said sourly, pushing him forward.

"But you understand that this unexpected turn of events doesn't negate anything I said earlier, right?" the Doctor asked. "About the bleeding?"

"I've had it with you and your bleeding crap," snapped Lisbon. She spun him around and looked sharply at him. "If I find out that _you _were the one to murder those innocent people, I'll make sure you're sent to jail for the rest of your life. And that'll be too good for you."

The Doctor swallowed. "It wasn't me," he said, almost sounding sincere. "I don't like this any more than you do. And I don't know what killed them, but whatever it is, I think that it's the same thing that opened the wound. I haven't had a chance to study it yet, so I don't know whether it's a clean cut or a nasty gash. I hardly know more than you do."

"Yeah, I find that hard to believe at the moment, seeing as you planned all this."

"_Planned_—? I didn't plan anything!" He actually had the nerve to sound indignant.

"Anytime you'd like to start telling me the truth, I'm ready to start listening," she informed him shortly. "But otherwise, you have the right to remain silent. Anything—"

"Are you actually going to try to _arrest_ me?" Surprise again crossed the Doctor's features. "I'm not even an American citizen."

"If you commit a crime in our country, Doctor, I can still arrest you," Lisbon told him, pushing him forward again.

"What will it take to get you to trust me? Just until, oh, I dunno, we sort all this out. However long that takes. Not long. A day, maybe, tops. Usually doesn't take me that long."

"It'll take a hell of a lot more than words to get me to trust the likes of you," Lisbon snapped.

The Doctor was, thankfully, quiet for a moment. But it didn't last. And when he did speak again, he'd stopped making sense. "What's your favourite colour?" was the completely irrelevant question he chose to ask.

"I don't have one."

"Sure you do. Everyone does. What's yours?" She didn't answer, and he continued, "Or don't you remember it now? Don't you remember something that you knew when you got up this morning? Come to that, what did you have for breakfast? Can you tell me that?"

"I am not going to tell you about my personal life."

"Because I'm prying," the Doctor asked, "or because you can't remember?"

"Just shut up and walk."

"But you know that's not normal, right?" the Doctor pressed. "You _know_ you knew it, but now you don't. But, oh, no matter, because it doesn't really matter, does it, what you ate for breakfast? It's all said and done, so it doesn't matter. You don't have to remember. But that's the point. That's why it went first. Recent history, the little, irrelevant things, bled out of you, fuel for who knows what. You were hardly scratched, Lisbon, and it hasn't been that long, but you've already lost that. If you'll trust me, I can stop it. I promise."

He wouldn't let it go. He kept going back to it. So what if she couldn't remember what she'd eaten that morning? He was right. It didn't matter. She didn't care. She had more important things to be thinking about. And if he was, surprisingly, telling the truth about not being involved—because obviously he was nuts about everything else, and she wasn't going to waste her time quibbling about it anymore—then she didn't have to deal with him. She could pass him off to Officer Waterer and he could deal with him. It wouldn't be her problem.

She had enough on her plate as it was. No one seemed to know anything. No wonder the local police hadn't thought they could handle this alone. She wondered who had called in the favour, but decided it didn't matter. They were here now, and she was supposed to be working with the Bluewater police to close this case as soon as possible.

Speaking of closing cases, though, she probably ought to find out what trouble Jane had gotten himself into now.

Cho was good, but he wasn't a miracle worker. Jane had probably gotten himself thrown out of somewhere by now. It never seemed to be long before he opened his mouth and came out with one rude, completely insensitive comment or another.

And if she was Jane and she'd been told she couldn't question the first person on the scene of the crime, she'd track down the second one. So they were probably at Jenny Blake's. Lisbon wasn't sure if she hoped she was right. She would be glad to find them, yes. But Jane would probably ask how she'd known, and she didn't want to admit that she was, perhaps, just possibly, in the tiniest way, beginning to understand how he thought. Under certain conditions, in certain situations only, of course, but she would almost rather that the inner workings of his head remained a complete mystery to her, because the day she started to understand them was the day she started to lose her sanity.

Of course, by that count, she'd begun to lose her marbles already.

"So if you're not going to throw me behind bars immediately," the Doctor began, sounding a bit hesitant, "d'you think you could take the handcuffs off of me? I promise not to wander off. And they are a bit tight."

She'd regret it if she did, but she didn't want to walk into Jenny Blake's house with the Doctor in handcuffs, either, with the amount of explaining she'd have to do when she had more pressing things to discuss. And somehow, she didn't want to leave the Doctor alone, because no matter what he said, she wasn't convinced he'd still be there by the time she got back. So she had to bring him with her. Unchained.

Against her better judgement, Lisbon got out her keys. "We're not finished," she warned him.

"Oh, far from it, I'm sure," he replied gravely. And there was something about the look in his eyes that just plain unnerved her, but it didn't bear thinking about. She had a case to close, and she couldn't afford to be distracted now.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to everyone who takes the time to review; I appreciate it. Also, it has been brought to my attention that, since this story is set in 2010, the events of _The Stolen Earth_ and _Journey's End _have already occurred. Amy Pond does not remember those events, given the crack in her wall, and the question was whether or not everyone else does, meaning that the CBI would be well aware of aliens. As I am not certain that there is not going to be some overarching storyline (maybe to do with silence falling?) that addresses whether Amy's forgetfulness is simply due to her being so very unique or whether everyone else similarly does not recall the day the Earth moved, perhaps due to the whole business of the timeline cracking from same explosion that restored the universe to its proper state, I am going to pretend that the good people at the CBI do not know with certainty that aliens exist. This may be due to forgetfulness, maybe brought on by the fact that something was rewound or eclipsed or looped out or rewritten or similarly lost over the events of _The Big Bang_, or perhaps they missed it, as Donna Noble so often does, or perhaps, given human nature, they are in denial and do not truly believe that such a thing occurred because such a thing is not possible.


	5. Chapter 5

She'd still expected him to run, Lisbon realized, so she was a bit relieved when he didn't. Actually, the Doctor was remarkably well-behaved. He kept in step with her, and he wasn't going on about bleeding and other nonsense. In fact, he kept his mouth shut. All he did was rub his wrists a bit.

She found that she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

By the time they'd walked the four or so blocks to Jenny's house, however, it was still hanging, and she was still anxious.

"Jenny Blake?" she asked when the door opened. The woman nodded. "I'm Agent Teresa Lisbon with the CBI, and this is—"

"Inspector John Smith," he interrupted, pulling out his own ID again, "known as the Doctor." Lisbon started, straining to get a look at his identification, swearing it had said something different last time, even if she couldn't remember what.

"Oh, yes, of course. Your colleagues are already here." Jenny opened the door wider to let them in. "I'm afraid I'll only be repeating myself, but I'll tell you what I can."

"Lovely," the Doctor said. "Though, first, do you mind if I help myself to a drink? I'm just a little parched, that's all."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'll get it. What would you like?"

"Oh, don't bother," the Doctor said, herding her and Lisbon towards the living room, which they could see clearly down the hall. "It won't take me but a minute." And before either woman could protest, he'd wandered off.

Lisbon had the distinct feeling that he wasn't searching for a drink. With her luck, he was looking for a back door and he was going to make a break for it. She should have stopped him. Just…if what Van Pelt had said was _true_, and they had his lookalike back in Sacramento, he wouldn't be going too far anyway. The two of them were in it too deep and would have to see it through until the end, whatever it was.

She spoke with Cho in private for a moment, with Jane distracting Jenny with one irrelevant question or another. They hadn't learned anything more, it seemed, than what Officer Waterer had told them. Jenny hadn't heard anything, hadn't noticed anything was off, didn't know of anyone who would want to do such a terrible thing to the Williams family. They were no further along now than when they had started.

She still asked questions, of course. She just wasn't certain that the answers would help anymore. Nothing else seemed to.

Ten minutes or so later, however, the Doctor wandered back into the room, offering no explanation of what he'd been up to. "Jenny," he asked, "when did you move here?"

"I've lived here for years," she answered. "And I've known it for longer. This used to be my grandparents' house. Why?"

"Oh, just curious. What time of year was it? When you officially moved everything in, I mean."

Jenny laughed. "You can't expect me to remember that now!"

"Sure I can," the Doctor countered. "Moving's always such a tedious business, isn't it? Surely you've got one story or another to tell me what season it was. Pouring rain? Blazing hot? Windy beyond belief?"

"But that's not even relevant," protested Jenny.

"Would you prefer for me to ask something relevant, then?" the Doctor asked. "Very well. From what I gather, you were the one who found Julia, correct? And according to the good Officer Waterer, that would make you the second and only person to have clapped eyes on the victims, correct? Because when the police arrived on the scene, the bodies had gone. Now, where could they have gone in that short period of time, Jenny, that you wouldn't have noticed? Or was Julia confused when she saw all the blood, and simply believed that she'd seen the bodies, placing them there in her imagination, more horrible and grotesque than they would have actually been, and the bodies of the victims were actually long gone? Because, funny thing, really, Julia can't seem to remember it all very well. What about you?"

"Well, I—"

"What did it look like, Jenny Blake, when you went into that bloodied room to grab Julia? _What did it look like_?"

Jenny began to shake her head. "I don't remember. I'm sorry, but it's all been such a blur…."

"Blur?" The Doctor raised his eyebrows as he repeated the word. "You're calling a complete blank a _blur_?"

Jenny suddenly looked very, very panicked, and very, very scared. The Doctor had the look of someone who knew he was right, but not proud of it. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I think we'd better talk. Alone." And taking Jenny's arm, he led her out of the room before they could protest.

"Who the hell does he think he is?" Lisbon hissed, looking between Cho and a rather amused Jane, demanding to know what had just happened and _how_ it had happened.

"He's an imposter," Jane said, "but you knew that, didn't you? You don't look surprised. We've got Rigsby and Van Pelt looking into the matter now, you'll remember. Just in case he's connected."

"He's connected somehow," Cho pointed out, "or he wouldn't be here."

"Well, he knows something," Lisbon agreed. "He's been planning this for a while. Van Pelt informed me that they have his partner back in Sacramento."

"But you didn't just arrest him because you think he's got inside help?" Jane guessed, reading her brooding face. "Well, you may be right, but whether you are or not, you can't put him under lock and key. We need to be able to follow him to find out what he's keeping secret." He pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it to her.

She caught it. "A key?' she asked. "To what?"

"That, Lisbon, is the million dollar question," Jane answered. "Well, the ten thousand dollar question, at least, since the million dollar question is who put all this together and committed the crime."

"Okay, fine." Lisbon shook her head, not wanting to be distracted any longer. "Look, if we ignore Dr. Smith's potential involvement, what do we have on the case?"

"The only two people who would know anything about the crime don't remember any details about it," Cho pointed out. "Logically, either someone's lying, or we need to find out what the other variable is and find out why they can't remember."

"Jane," Lisbon asked, hoping she wouldn't regret this, "would this be some sort of suppression?"

"You mean, is it something I could overcome with hypnotism?"

"I'm not asking you to hypnotize them," Lisbon hastily corrected. "I'm just asking your opinion as to whether you think they were drugged or if this amnesia is natural."

"Well, if they were drugged, they would have had to ingest it beforehand," Jane reminded her. "I'd be more willing to believe that Julia is suppressing something, based on what Cho told me."

"And Jenny?"

"Well, I don't normally like to give it away so easily," Jane began, well aware of Lisbon's glower, "but I'd say she's lying through her teeth. She knows something that she's not telling."

"And you figured that out how, exactly?"

"Jenny said Marianne liked the sunshine, so she opened the curtains to the living room early. But Marianne's living room was on the west side of the house. If she liked the early morning sunlight, she would have sat in a different room to enjoy it, or out on the porch on the east side of the house, looking across the open street. So Jenny was lying. She knows something, and she's covering it up."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I asked her about her job before, about her routine. She had no reason to lie about that, so I could establish a baseline of her responses from there."

Lisbon was not in the mood to argue over little things like reliability or protocol this time. "All right, then. Cho, you go talk to the rest of the neighbours. I'm going to have a chat with Officer Waterer. Jane…." Lisbon trailed off. Sending him off without a babysitter didn't sit well with her, but she didn't have much of a choice. "Stick with Dr. Smith and see what you can find out about him. If he talks, see if you can make sense of his riddles. I want to know what's going on here, and I want to know quickly."

* * *

As the Doctor had feared, it did not take the CBI long, with their resources, to track down a certain Sally Sparrow, and from her, Lawrence Nightingale, and from him, the story of a particularly vexing Easter egg that had generated more attention on the Internet than he had ever anticipated.

Traces were necessary, yes. And sometimes he needed to deliberately leave them behind. But it would make his life so much easier if he could wipe them from existence after they had served their purpose. Nothing major—just some little quirk in the technology that deleted the Easter egg on all copies of those seventeen DVDs after 2008, for example. Of course, humans being what they are, using the Internet as they do, that may not have helped him much at all anyhow.

"Would you care to explain this?" Van Pelt asked, playing the Easter egg for him on a laptop. She looked steadily at the Doctor, waiting for his response.

"_I'm a time traveller_," his Easter egg self admitted.

The Doctor looked at it, watching as Martha interrupted him and as he went on to explain to Sally what was going on, confirming what she was saying, correcting her when she wasn't quite precise enough for his tastes. Finally he said, "It's a bit self-explanatory, isn't it?"

"Please, Doctor. Don't make this any harder than it needs to be."

"I'm not the one making it harder. _You're_ the one making it harder." Van Pelt raised her eyebrows, and the Doctor sighed. "It's complicated."

"_Very complicated_," the Easter egg version of himself chimed.

The Doctor ignored it. "You've watched it, haven't you? Now, I admit it's a bit harder to piece together when you don't know the other side of the conversation, but you can take some things from it. I mean, I tell you, _twice_, that I'm a time traveller."

"You're asking me to believe in time travel?"

"I'm asking you to believe that anything's possible, even time travel." The Doctor paused. "Do you believe in God, Grace?"

"Agent Van Pelt, please, and that is not pertinent, Doctor."

"Of course it is," the Doctor countered. "And, from your defensive tone, I'll take it that you do. But you can't show me any solid proof, can you, that what you believe in is true? Of course not. That's why it's called _faith_." Van Pelt was glaring at him, so he switched topics. "Then what about things like ESP? Psychics? Do you believe in them?"

Silence. Even the Easter egg copy of himself was quiet, waiting until it was his turn to speak. Then, "We're not discussing my beliefs, Doctor."

"So you do," the Doctor concluded. "Excellent. Now tell me _why_ you believe in them."

"I'm not—"

"Humour me." A pause, then, "Please."

"I know people who are psychic," Van Pelt finally answered. "Now what is your point?"

"How do you know that they are psychic and not just very clever at reading people?" the Doctor asked. Van Pelt started to splutter out an indignant response, and the Doctor continued, "Now, I'm not saying psychics aren't real. I know a few legitimate ones myself." Although the last one he would almost rather he hadn't met. Somehow knowing that he was going to die…. But still. He had to keep focussed. Before he blurted out something stupid and said something like how he'd read a few minds a time or two himself. "What I'm saying is, not everyone who claims to be is really psychic; they're just really observant, and good at guessing. So how can you separate the con artists from the gifted? It's not easy. Sometimes you just have to follow your gut instinct. But sometimes things are so confusing, the circumstances so convoluted, that you just don't know which way to turn for the truth."

"What's your point, Doctor?"

"You believe in something that you can't, completely, know is certain—the absolute, completely unquestionable, truth. You can't know. You just can't. But you still believe in it, even when someone else comes and laughs in your face and calls it impossible and you a fool for thinking that, just maybe, it _is_ possible. And you may have your moments of doubt, but deep down, you still have faith in what you believe, don't you?" The Doctor hesitated. "I'm asking you to believe in something that sounds crazy, yes. But I believe time travel is possible, and I'm asking you, just for a day or two, to believe with me."

The Easter egg video had ended now, his figure frozen in position after he had finished wishing Sally and Larry luck that they had, undoubtedly, needed. Van Pelt was looking between it and him. She looked torn, and for a moment the Doctor had hope, but then scepticism hardened her features again. He sat back and waited.

"So you're asking me to believe that this—" and here she gestured at the video "—is legitimate? That you've travelled in time?"

"Yes."

"But if it's true, then you're also asking me to believe that these angels are real."

The Doctor opened his mouth, trying to figure his way around a response that wouldn't be dismissed immediately. "Well…yes, I suppose, but not really, because they're not pertinent." He'd dealt with them. Unless some idiot came along and moved them out of position, or unless a few more scavengers found their way to Earth, they wouldn't be causing any more trouble here. "What I need you to believe is that time is fluid, Grace, and that it's not linear, so it can be bent, twisted, looped, knotted, gnarled, cracked, shattered, wrinkled—all of that, and more, but most importantly, _wounded_. Because that's what we're dealing with. A wound in time. I don't know what caused it, not precisely, not yet, but if I don't sort it out, something else will. And if you don't believe anything else I've said, at least believe this: if anything _besides_ me takes it upon itself to sort it, it won't be pretty, and it won't be pleasant, and I can't guarantee that anyone, myself included, will come out of it unscathed."

* * *

"I need you to tell me what happened, Jenny," the Doctor said quietly.

"I'm sorry," she said, insistently, "but I don't remember."

"You remember something," the Doctor pointed out. "Why not tell me what that is?"

There was silence for a moment. Then, in a small voice, Jenny answered, "Because it's not real."

"Are you sure about that?"

"No, I mean, it's not really my memory, I don't think."

"And why do you think that?"

"I just…. It's not mine."

That didn't help him much. It didn't tell him whether something was possessing her, or using some form of control, mind or genetic or otherwise, or if she was just being cleverly manipulated, or if it was something else entirely. "I can help," the Doctor told her sincerely, "if you'll let me. But to do that, you'll have to tell me what happened."

"I didn't kill them, if that's what you think," Jenny said, sounding bitter. "But it's going to look like I did. My footprints are all over their living room. Someone will say I could easily have gone back and moved their bodies after I got Julia out of there. Because I did leave her alone, even if she doesn't recall it. It wasn't for long, but I can't deny that I did. I went downstairs to see if I had any honey left for her tea. I couldn't find any upstairs. And I would have been the only one strong enough to move their bodies out of the living room, and it wouldn't have been easy to do it in the time I had, but I'm sure someone will say it was time enough." She took a steadying breath. "I even have their DNA in my house, from whatever clung to me and Julia. And Julia's amnesia works in my favour, doesn't it, if I had killed them? I'm sure there's some drug out there that can be given to someone to block out their memory. And it won't matter that they can't find traces of it in my house, will it, because they'll just say I got rid of it."

"If you'd murdered them and had been intending to move their bodies, you wouldn't have let anyone see them first, now would you?" the Doctor reminded her.

"You don't understand. I still went back there, myself, alone, before the police came. I had to go and look at them. I didn't believe it. It was the only way to force myself to see the truth. I hated going back, but I had to, because I knew if I didn't, I wouldn't accept it."

"And what did you see?" the Doctor asked, sensing that this was an important part of Jenny's story.

"I hadn't…." Jenny stopped, took a deep breath, and started again. "I hadn't made it into the living room. I just saw it from the hall. Their bodies…. They just vanished. Faded."

"Like your memories?" the Doctor guessed.

"It's not as bad as Julia," Jenny said instead.

"You're older," the Doctor replied simply. He studied her for a moment and added, "And Julia was torn wide open. You've just cut yourself. It's not as bad."

"I don't even know what that means," Jenny said sourly, "and yet I think, because of it, I'll be blamed for something I didn't do. They'll want to close this case. If they can get enough evidence to pin it on me, they will."

"Not if it's just circumstantial," insisted the Doctor.

Jenny was quiet for a moment. "Where do you fit into all of this? Who are you? Why do you believe me?"

"I'm the Doctor," the Doctor responded, smiling a bit. "And I'm going to make sure, Jenny Blake, that you aren't blamed for something that you didn't do." He paused, his expression becoming hard. "But you do realize, of course, that if you, or whatever is speaking through you, is lying to me, I'm going to stop you, and I'm going to stop this, and you'll regret ever beginning it?"

Jenny looked at him for a long moment. "You've seen something like this before, then."

"Many times," the Doctor agreed. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver. "Hold still; this won't hurt a bit." He scanned her a few times, just as he had scanned Julia. "You're clean," he said, meaning she carried no alien traces, though he didn't really expect her to know that. "And if you'll let me, I'll clean up your cut for you and stitch you up so you don't lose anything else."

"You can fix me up as easily as if the wounds were physical?" Jenny asked, and although her expression was surprised, she didn't sound it. She must have noticed the Doctor's calculating look, because she added, "I'm sorry. It's just…with everything that's been happening, I don't know if there's anything I wouldn't believe now. I mean, if someone else told me that they felt as if their memories were literally draining out of them, or that they saw something vanish before their very eyes, I'd think they'd had at least one too many. But now that it's happening to me, and Julia, and lord knows who else, I feel…." She shook her head. "I feel like I know what everyone felt like when they first discovered that the world was, truly, round. It seems impossible, and it doesn't look right, and it's hard to get your head around it all, but it's true."

"Is that why you said your memory didn't feel like your own? Because it's hard to believe?"

"No, it's…. It's like I'm remembering a story someone told me, or a book I read, or a movie I watched. I can picture it, and I remember it well, but it doesn't feel like anything I remember experiencing."

Was something trying to seed itself inside of her? That would explain the memory, or memories if there were more that she wasn't telling him about, but that didn't make sense if she was wholly human. And he'd scanned for more than just a few things when he'd checked her over. He was confident that he hadn't missed anything. How often did he miss things, after all? Well, larger picture things, anyway. He would admit that he did, on occasion, miss those little, human things that his companions always pointed out to him.

Except there was no one with him to point any little, human things out to him now.

Although, come to that, he'd only checked to see if Jenny was picking up on something alien. He'd never tried to see if she was somehow tuning into another human consciousness. The wound in time would make it possible. It was a two-way door, after all. Julia had been pulling things back in, things she didn't understand. It stood entirely to reason that Jenny would be doing the same.

The shorter exposure time would account for her still having all her wits about her.

"Jenny," the Doctor began hesitantly, "would you mind if I took a quick look around?"

It was a bit of a comfort to see the confusion on her face. It meant that whatever she _was_ picking up on wasn't one of those pesky omniscient types. "I take it you don't mean inside my house," Jenny finally said, looking a bit uncomfortable.

"Not exactly," the Doctor admitted. "I actually meant inside your head."

Another pause. He was beginning to wonder if she was going to snap after all. Human minds were often stronger than he initially gave them credit for, but they could only withstand so much. But when she answered, the Doctor knew that Jenny was still in control; she'd simply relapsed onto a fool's hope. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" she whispered. "It would be all so much easier if this were a dream."

"If this is a dream," the Doctor asked her, "then who is the dreamer? And, assuming it's not you or me, we'd be questioning our existence next, now wouldn't we? Who's to say, if this is all a dream, that we aren't just fictions of that dream? And if one of us _is_ the dreamer, and this is a lucid dream, then we ought to have control of it, oughtn't we? But if we can't take that control, does that mean that we _aren't_ the ones dreaming, or does it mean that we can't really know that we are dreaming, or that we're just limiting ourselves within our dream unintentionally, or does it mean, plainly and simply, that we _aren't_ dreaming, and that this is indeed reality?" He shook his head. "I'd find this a lot simpler if it's just reality through and through, myself. I don't tend to trust dreams. Certainly not my own."

Jenny looked a bit taken aback at that. The Doctor supposed it hadn't occurred to her. "Well, if you must, be quick about it." She hesitated, then added, "It doesn't hurt, does it?"

"Not a bit," the Doctor promised. "I'm quite careful." But Jenny still looked uneasy, so he added, "I don't have to if you aren't up to it."

"But will you be able to tell what's happening if you do?"

"Not necessarily, but there's a good chance, yes."

"All right, then." Jenny closed her eyes and looked like she was trying to relax. It was a pity that she was so clearly failing.

"Just close a door on anything you don't want me to see," the Doctor told her, gently touching her temples with his fingertips and closing his own eyes.

He opened them again to find Jenny staring at him, warily. He guessed she knew full well that he really had been poking about in her head and that he hadn't, fully, been able to stitch her up as he'd promised. He dropped his hands and, finding no other use for them, shoved them in his pockets. "Well," he started, "does the name Edith mean anything to you?"

"Edith?" came a new voice. The Doctor wasn't sure he liked the note in Patrick Jane's voice, however light it was made to be, but if he was honest with himself, it was probably only because he didn't like people sneaking up on him. That never boded well. He had to wonder how long the police consultant had been watching them and listening in. "You wouldn't happen to mean Edith Waterer, would you?"

"But…." Jenny shook her head, protesting, backing away from both the Doctor and Jane. "Lloyd's been a widower for ten years! How do you even know that?"

"Oh, I just like looking into things," Jane answered. "I flipped through your community history book, and you'd stuck a clipping of an obituary between the pages, so naturally it stood out. Now, I'm curious, when the Williams were house-shopping—did anyone _tell _them that someone had had a fatal heart attack in the living room of the house they were so interested in? Because even though it has nothing whatsoever to do with the quality of the house itself, it would unnerve most people, wouldn't it? And with Officer Waterer still in the community, someone would be bound to mention it sometime."

Jenny, unable to muster a proper answer for him, just shook her head.

And the Doctor, for the first time in a very long time, felt that there might, just possibly, be someone in the room who knew more about the situation than he did.

* * *

A/N: So, hopefully everyone's enjoying things, and thanks to all of you who take the time to review.


	6. Chapter 6

"Officer Waterer?" Lisbon asked, knocking on the open door to his office. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course," he replied, looking up from his work and giving her his full attention.

"I know your official opinion of the case," Lisbon began slowly, "but I'd like to know, unofficially, what you think."

Officer Waterer motioned for her to come in and close the door behind her. When she was seated, he let some of the weariness show in his face. "Honestly," he began, "I don't know what to think. I've been at this job for over forty years, and I've never seen anything like this. It doesn't look like anyone broke in, which suggests that whoever did this was known to the Williams. The living room is coated in their blood, but there are no traces anywhere else in the house. The killer, or killers, clearly wanted the murders to be discovered, but the bodies were not taken until after the police were alerted. It was managed without anyone hearing or seeing anything. It's not just a matter of people not coming forward—they're scared, Agent Lisbon. Not so much of being killed in the same way, but of the fact that this could happen, to people they knew and respected, here, in their own home, and knowing that the culprits were so meticulous about the whole thing that it had to be planned."

Lisbon was silent for a moment. "Do you believe that Julia or Jenny could have been mistaken about seeing the bodies?"

"I spoke with them after it happened. They were shaken up, but I don't think they were imagining things."

"Then what's your opinion of Julia's memory loss?" Everything had happened less than forty-eight hours ago, but everyone in town, it seemed, knew what had happened with the crime and its aftermath, and everyone had an opinion. She'd gathered that much when they'd first arrived in town.

"I don't know. Carol and Mark let me question her again, but her condition's deteriorated drastically. She's not the child she was before. Not that I expect her to laugh and grin so quickly after seeing something like that, but some of the things that came out of her mouth…." He shook his head. "I'm getting too old to be doing this. Edith always was after me to retire early. She'd had this plan in mind. Wanted to see more of the world than this little corner of the continent." His face grew sad for a moment. "We never made it."

Lisbon waited a minute or two before continuing her questioning. "Do you have any inkling, any feeling at all, as to why this would happen?"

"That's the trouble," Officer Waterer replied. "I don't. No one does."

And nothing Lisbon heard convinced her that Lloyd Waterer was mistaken.

* * *

The Doctor was less than amused by the fact that Rigsby and Van Pelt had decided to question him in shifts, clearly thinking he'd start talking sense sometime. Trouble was, he _was_ talking sense. He, for instance, understood it perfectly. But he hadn't been able to explain it to Van Pelt, and Rigsby didn't look particularly receptive to the speech either, so the Doctor had decided, for once, to try an entirely new approach to the situation.

He wouldn't say anything at all.

He had made that decision precisely two minutes and thirty-four seconds before Van Pelt came in to question him again. At least, he'd thought she'd just come in to question him again. But then she'd said something he'd hoped to hear: "We've got tickets booked for the next flight to Parker, Arizona, and we'll pick up a rented car from there. It won't be a long drive."

There was a brief silence, finally broken not by the Doctor but by an astonished Agent Wayne Rigsby, who was staring at his colleague as if he expected her to announce that she was joking. "What? But I thought we—"

"We have to be at the airport in half an hour," Van Pelt interrupted. "Wrap it up here."

The Doctor grinned, and three minutes and twelve seconds after he had made his decision to keep silent, he promptly gave that up and opened his mouth. "Excellent! I'll just be on my way, then." He started to get up, but something on Van Pelt's face stopped him. "What?" he asked, suddenly getting a very bad feeling.

"You're coming with us," she said pointedly.

"Oh, no, I'm not," the Doctor protested. "I can't. Sorry. Not possible."

"You know something about what's going on," Van Pelt told him, "and since you're not talking to us, you can talk to them."

"What?" This was bad. This was very bad. He couldn't go. It just…. No. Bad. Very, very, _very_ bad. "No, I can't. Really, I _can't_." They weren't looking particularly receptive to that comment, so he tacked a lie on the end of the truths: "I have this sort of…condition. I can't fly. Plays with my balance. Inner ear problem."

"Then how did you get out here?" Van Pelt asked, crossing her arms and giving him that look that told him he was in no way believed.

"Not on an airplane," the Doctor answered. He hadn't been on one in years. _Lifetimes_. And getting through security in this day and age would be a positive nightmare. How was he supposed to know whether or not he had anything metal in his pockets, or liquids, or whatever else? He'd practically have to unearth a new suit to be certain.

"And you took a boat over to the States, then?" Rigsby added, laughing a bit.

Oh. Right. "I've been travelling for a very long time," the Doctor answered carefully.

"So you've been planning this for a very long time," Rigsby translated. "Which means that you are involved in this. Deeply."

"What? No!" The Doctor shook his head. "Stop jumping to conclusions!" He had to get out of here and find the TARDIS. Quickly. Aside from the fact that time would pass _very_ slowly on the trip out there, he could _not_ run into his other self. He hadn't before, so he couldn't now. It would be very, very bad if he did. He was having enough trouble trying to sort this out _without_ adding another whole suitcase full of bad on top of it.

"Dr. Smith," Rigsby started, "you have not been able to produce so much as a valid passport, let alone a fabricated tale of robbery to support your excuses. I suggest that you start telling us everything, now, right from the beginning, before things get worse."

"But they will get worse if you try to take _me_ to Bluewater before I've even left," the Doctor protested. "It'll get infected if I run into myself!" But he took one look at their faces and saw that they gave his words no more credence than they would the ravings of a madman, and he had to console himself with the fact that, at the very least, he'd succeeded in getting them to go to Bluewater.

And perhaps, by the time they reached the airport, he'll have found the right setting on the sonic screwdriver to let him get through security without further trouble.

He was not looking forward to this.

At all.

Did he ever get into such a twist when he had a companion or two or three to serve as distractions? Surely not. But then again, it was often his job to rescue them, not vice versa. Though that's not to say they didn't try. They always tried. Their levels of success were varied, that's all.

But it's not like he hadn't gotten himself out of worse scrapes. He had.

He just…usually had better luck than this.

* * *

"December 31, 1999," Jenny said, looking between the Doctor and Patrick Jane as if she were wondering how much each of them really knew about what was happening. "The Waterers threw a New Year's Eve party. I don't think anyone knew Edith had a bad heart. She'd been running around, playing the good hostess, and she'd stopped to visit—" Jenny fell silent. Swallowing, she finished, "We were in the middle of a conversation, four or five of us, and she'd been quiet, but no more so than usual, and then she just…. I thought she'd fainted at first."

"1999?" the Doctor repeated. "New Year Eve's _1999_?" He didn't seem to have heard much else.

"It wasn't the best start to the new millennium," Jenny conceded.

"Will you excuse us?" Jane asked her, motioning to the Doctor. "I'd like to speak with him alone for a moment."

"Of course."

Jane smiled at her, knowing she wouldn't have said anything else. He pulled on the Doctor's arm, tugging the shocked man into the next room. "How much do you really know about all this?" Jane asked quietly.

The Doctor's mouth moved for a minute before he got the words out. "I just…I just thought something had landed here by accident or that it was just a bit of temporal overlap after the War. I didn't think…. I mean, it didn't even _occur_ to me to look for…. It should have, but, well, I was a bit more dazed than usual after that one, and then I was more than a bit preoccupied, and then it all added up and it was too late and we went back and…." He stopped. "The reverberation should have sealed everything, but this part was evidently bunched up. Wrinkled. It must've been lying dormant all this time."

Interesting. Whatever he was saying clearly made perfect sense only to him, yet Jane would call him a crazed genius before he'd call him a common madman. He knew something; he just wasn't telling it to the rest of them. "What does that mean in terms of the bleeding you were talking about before?"

"It tells me where everything is bleeding out to," the Doctor answered. "I mean, I doubt I can get it all back, but if I can figure out what caused it to tear open, now that I know why it was susceptible to being torn in the first place, I ought to be able to close it. And that'll keep whatever's been coming through here out, and if I'm really good, which I am, I'll be able to remove whatever's come through and put it back into the right plane." He stopped for a moment. "You believe me, then?" he asked. "Agent Lisbon was all set to arrest me for my involvement in this case."

"Oh, I don't doubt that you're involved," Jane said, smiling. "But you're not a cold blooded murderer of four people who I highly doubt you had ever heard of two days ago. Whoever did this was a lot more careful than you are."

"_What_?" The Doctor looked indignant. "I'll have you know that I'm _plenty_ careful."

Jane's smile grew. "And yet you aren't quite careful enough to manage not to lose your key."

The Doctor's face blanched. "What?" he asked, in a very different tone of voice than his earlier squawk.

"Your key," Jane repeated.

The Doctor's hands started flying, rummaging in his pockets, checking his neck, even going so far as to pull off a shoe and shake it out. But it was all in vain. "Where is it?" he demanded, his voice just slightly coloured with anger. Well, anyone but the most observant would think it was anger. In reality, it was actually an overpowering tone that commanded truth, touched not with anger but the sharp edge of fear, and containing the faintest trace of a threat.

"Oh, I don't have it, if that's what you're asking," Jane said truthfully, even though he knew perfectly well that Lisbon had it because he had been the one to give it to her. "Tell me—what's so special about it?"

The Doctor frowned at him. "It's mine," he answered, a bit sourly, "and it unlocks a very special box. I don't travel anywhere without it."

Jane studied him for a moment. "Very well. None of my business. But answer me this, then. You're not John Smith, Doctor. Who are you?"

"You figured that out, then?"

"Right from the start," Jane replied cheerfully, though he knew very well that the Doctor already knew that; he'd commented on it at the time, after all. "Easy, really. You answer to the name like an actor would answer to his character's name, if you know what I mean." He paused, then added, "But if you aren't who you claim to be, I have to ask again, who are you?"

"I'm a problem solver of sorts," the Doctor answered carefully. "And this is a problem, so I need to sort it. Sometimes I find the problems, and sometimes they find me, but I can nearly always fix whatever's wrong, or at the very least patch it up and clean up after the damage has been done if I can't prevent it."

"You're very secretive, aren't you? You still didn't answer my question."

The Doctor shrugged. "You never answered mine," he informed Jane nonchalantly, "back when I asked what was so strange that it kept you out of the living room."

"I had a few reasons for that," Jane allowed. "For not entering the room, I mean. One was seeing you from the window, coming on foot from a direction that would indicate a parking spot much further from the scene than necessary if you really were an official."

"And another reason?" the Doctor asked in a not entirely happy voice.

"It was something you didn't notice in the few minutes you were looking at the room, I suppose, or you would have commented on it," Jane began. Contrary to the Doctor, he sounded quite happy, and rather smug. "You, when looking at the room, had said that every inch of it was covered with blood."

The Doctor blinked at him. "Wasn't it?" He had a look of intense concentration on his face, as if he was thinking rapidly, trying to remember something.

"Aside from the fact that it was a slight exaggeration, yes, I did see something out of place." Jane waited, seeing a look of comprehension dawn on the Doctor's face. The man must have a good memory if he could go back and pinpoint something like that. "If a rock is sitting untouched on a blood-splattered coffee table, then it was placed there, presumably by our murderer. I find the fact that it was a rock interesting. I'm curious as to why the killer is playing games with us. Marianne had an interest in geology, after all."

"I'm not sure that it's…." The Doctor trailed off. "Right. First things first. Did you say that you knew where my key was?"

Jane, still smiling, shook his head. "No, I didn't," he confirmed in a cheerful tone.

The Doctor frowned at him. "I better've replaced my spare," he muttered, patting his pockets again as if he might miraculously come across his lost key. "I'll be back," he said, very clearly, once he had given up his search. "Don't do anything until I'm with you again. Understand?"

"Perfectly," Jane answered easily. He watched as the Doctor slipped off, noting his speed and direction. He'd follow him in a minute. Going back to Jenny, he said, "Something came up. We'll have to finish this conversation later." He didn't bother waiting for her response; he just grinned at her and headed off.

The Doctor had made it further than Jane had expected, but he was still ridiculously easy to tail. He was completely focussed on the invisible path ahead of him; he didn't even glance over his shoulder. That was not to say, however, that he did not take a _very _convoluted path. Had he not walked with such determination, Jane would have thought that he wasn't entirely sure where he was going. But judging from what he had gathered of the man so far, it was more likely that he _was_ aware that he was being followed, and he was simply trying, poorly, to evade his tail.

This was evidently the case, for the Doctor finally stopped and rounded on Jane. "Do you mind?" he asked pointedly, waving an arm ahead of him. They weren't there yet, wherever the destination was, but his point was clear.

"Just tagging along," Jane replied with all the innocence he could muster.

For a minute, the Doctor looked exasperated, but then his expression dissolved into a rueful grin. "I suppose I'd be a bit of a hypocrite to discourage a healthy show of curiosity," he acknowledged, "but, really, now's not the time."

Jane shrugged. "Sometimes you have to make time to do something."

"You really don't know how hard that is," the Doctor said. "Really, you don't. Literally _making time_—_I_ can't do that. And I don't really take too kindly to those who can when they decide that everyone bound by time is…." The Doctor broke off, shaking his head. "But I understand what you're trying to do, so let me just tell you, if you want answers, you'll have to let me go now. What's happening here, what already happened, and what _could _happen, if things aren't sorted—you lot can't understand it all, no matter how much you try. So, please, just trust me. I can figure this out. Because whatever explanation you lot come up with, it won't be the right one, and I'm the only one who can find out what that right one actually _is_, so if you're the type of person who wants to know the truth, you ought to let me go."

"Oh, well, if you're off to save the world, I wouldn't dream of holding you up," Jane said. The Doctor looked at him suspiciously, and he added, "Of course, I wouldn't mind knowing why no one else would be able to solve this."

The Doctor sighed. "You're the type of person, aren't you, who has had one experience or another that has crushed your belief in anything beyond the facts and figures in front of you? Don't be so quick to judge, Patrick Jane. It's a big universe. You can't know all its secrets."

Jane smirked at that. "And you can?" he drawled, his tone making it clear that, at least at the moment, he did not have a very high opinion of the Doctor despite the man's obvious high opinion of himself. Perhaps that was because he wasn't easy to classify, but Jane enjoyed the challenge.

"No," the Doctor conceded, "for all my exploring, I can't. But I'm glad of that. I wouldn't want to know everything; aside from it being terribly hard to remember, and the danger of it all going to my head, I wouldn't like to think that there's nothing out there that's not known, waiting to be discovered. That would take all the fun out of life. No surprises, no suspense, no thrill of discovery—just stale knowledge. I wouldn't really like that, would you?" Without giving Jane a chance to comment, the Doctor continued, "Of course, the universe isn't really like that. It's not static. Everything's changing, so knowledge never _can_ be stale, not if you're willing to look for something new. Trouble is, people aren't always willing to accept those new things. Are you?"

"Well, I wouldn't _immediately_ call you a liar to your face if you came up with some cock and bull explanation for everything," Jane replied. "I'll wait until I've figured it out and can disprove you, point by point, with those logical facts and figures you assume I so love to use."

"Oh, I've nothing against facts and figures," the Doctor started. "In fact, I quite delight in them. And if you want to use cool logic to figure this all out, be my guest. Spread the story, in fact. I'll be happy to help. It'll probably make cleaning up easier for me. But I, myself, don't depend as much on logic as you might think. It can be flawed. It can be twisted. And everything that I know to be true can look completely outrageous in the face of it, but that doesn't make the truth any less than what it is. I still use logic and reason and everything of that sort, of course. Always will. But I try not to use it as a shield, like you are."

For a long second, Jane didn't have anything to say to that, but then he became defensive. "You don't know me well enough to say anything like that," he said, his voice low, losing the playful tone it had held during their light-hearted banter.

"No, I don't expect I do," the Doctor replied, his tone more serious than amiable, matching Jane's. "But that's my point, isn't it? You don't know me well enough to say anything, either. And what you do, figuring things out like that—with you, I'd say it's guesswork, isn't it? Clever, but still fallible. So you can't say anything with absolute certainty."

When Jane didn't argue immediately, the Doctor took advantage of the silence, resuming their earlier conversation, saying, "If I can't find my spare key, I'll need to get my other one back immediately, rather than simply after the fact. I'm bit curious as to why it went missing in the first place, though. I have to wonder if there's a Tryl'c'ark on the loose. Probably long gone with my luck, but I certainly wouldn't put stunts like this past it. Still. It's a much more likely explanation than my simply dropping the key, and it wouldn't have fallen out of my pocket—_into_ my pocket would be a different matter, since I'm not quite sure how some things got in there if they didn't simply fall in—and I would have lost a fair few other things besides if I had a hole in one of them. But, yes. I've been thinking. You didn't say, earlier, whether or not you knew where my key was, but clearly you do, or you wouldn't have known that I'd lost it in the first place. So I'll ask again: where's my key?"

Jane looked the Doctor up and down before replying, "Lisbon has it."

"Oh, brilliant," the Doctor said in a tone of voice that meant he felt quite the opposite. "She's not going to give that back without finding out what it unlocks."

Jane, who believed this to be the case as well, which was one reason he'd given the key to Lisbon in the first place, had to give the Doctor credit for recognizing that. "Perhaps you'll just have to show her, then. Maybe she'll believe your stories after you stop keeping secrets."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" the Doctor asked, the unhappy accusation clear in his voice. He felt, rightly so, as if he were being manipulated. "But my secrets, Patrick Jane, aren't all kept behind locked doors. And while I will admit a number of them _are_ kept in the box that key unlocks, would you really want Pandora to open it, if you had the choice?"

"As the story goes," Jane reminded him, "Pandora didn't just release evil into the world. There was hope as well."

"Yes," the Doctor agreed, "but she opened something that she couldn't contain, and she was left with the consequences of that decision. She didn't think how far the effects of that one simple action would reach, did she? She was just curious, that's all. No harm in peeking, right?" The Doctor shook his head. "Some things are best left closed. Trust me."

Jane smirked. "You don't seem like the sort of person who would walk away from something when you're burning with curiosity."

The Doctor took a slow breath. "Not often, no. But I know when I shouldn't look, when I should keep that book closed. And I do. I did." He stopped, looking as if he was debating not continuing, but continue he did. "I've told the truth before and not been believed. Telling it has gotten me out of a few scrapes in the past, yes, but it's also gotten me into some. I try to keep to myself a bit more now, though I don't always manage it. It's a bit easier, though, with so many people sharing your mindset, Patrick Jane." He grinned then, adding, "You wouldn't believe how many people are content to believe a lie when the truth is, to them, impossible."

Jane raised his eyebrows, expecting the Doctor to follow this with some of the usual nonsense, perhaps claiming that he was psychic. He was used to dealing with those sorts of people. He knew how they thought, what made them tick. He'd been one himself, after all. And even if they didn't admit to being frauds, people like, say, Kristina Frye, were frauds nonetheless. But he knew what she would lose by admitting that, if she dropped her 'psychic' masquerade for just a minute, particularly when anyone who was so much as giving her the benefit of the doubt was around.

But one would think she wouldn't have the gall to pretend in such a pretentious manner that she was something she wasn't in the face of a murder investigation.

Apparently, though, she wasn't the only one, if he was interpreting the Doctor's cryptic words as intended.

The Doctor must have read his expression. "You won't ever see me for who I really am if you don't let yourself really look."

"Won't I?" Jane asked. "You've lost people. You have that look in your eyes. You're alone now, but you weren't always, so you're lonely, but you don't want to admit it. You keep moving, seeking anything that will keep your attention. You're good at it, finding these things and getting yourself close enough to get involved without too many questions being asked, so you've been at it a while. Probably longer than you'd care to admit. And in all the places your feet have carried you, you've seen things that you wish hadn't. You weren't perturbed when you saw all that blood in the room, coating the walls and the furniture, soaking into the rug, drying on the slick wooden floor. You didn't show that it sickened you. You've seen worse, and you've stomached it, and all you want to do is stop it and make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else. You're reckless; you'd do whatever it takes to catch the murderer, even if it kills you in the process."

The Doctor was quiet for a moment. "It goes both ways, you know. You could just as easily be describing yourself."

"But you can't say I'm wrong, can you?"

The Doctor shook his head. "No. But I'll guess that some small part of you wishes I could, since it would mean that the evil out there in the universe has left someone alone." He hesitated. "I have to ask you to leave me be, Patrick Jane. I'm on the same side as you are. I'm trying to stop this, to make sure that it never happens again. It's a constant battle to keep everything in balance. I've been an unwitting soldier in it for years, and I can't stop playing the Good Samaritan if there's anything that I can do. But I've found it to be a dangerous battle, and it's best if I fight it alone."

"You haven't always," Jane noted.

"No. And I've paid the price for that."

"You can't go on alone forever. No one can." Not that that would stop him, at least, from trying, especially since he knew what the Doctor meant about people who were too close to you getting hurt, for there was no doubt in Jane's mind that that was the price the Doctor had paid.

"Somewhere down the road, I'll become a different man, and perhaps then I'll agree with you," the Doctor admitted, "but right now, I'm not willing to take the risk that someone gets caught in the crossfire." He stopped, and it was a moment before he could continue. "Everyone who gets close to me gets hurt. I don't want that to happen to any of you lot. It's safer if you keep your distance."

"I'm going to make sure that this case gets closed, Doctor," Jane informed him simply. "Even if it does encroach on your territory."

The Doctor sighed. "Very well. I'll do my best, but…. You have to be careful. You have to watch out for each other. I can't make any guarantees."

"I'm not asking you to. This is my job." And it would be, right up until the point he found Red John and finally had him cornered. After that point, they might actually have a good reason to lock him up in jail and he wouldn't feel it immediately necessary to escape.

"Now it is, yes," the Doctor agreed, "but how long will it be, if something beyond your control shifts and you're sent spiralling off in a different direction? I know what the risks are. You don't. I'm not even sure you'd understand them all, not really. So just…." The Doctor trailed off, shaking his head. "Good luck."

* * *

A/N: All right, I know a lot of people were waiting for that conversation, so I do hope that I didn't disappoint. Also, I'm aware that the 11th Doctor didn't know the story of Pandora's Box, but for our purposes, we'll just say that there are some things he still hasn't quite remembered after the regeneration process, or that he really has too many things on his mind to remember every single thing he's ever known all at the same time, or that he was too focussed on other things to recall a bit of Greek mythology, or something of that sort. Anyway, many thanks to those who have reviewed.


	7. Chapter 7

The Doctor was pleased, when he finally reached the TARDIS, that he could feel the cubbyhole above the P. He'd hoped it was still there; he hadn't been able to remember, really, whether or not she'd still had it. Getting in there had been a bit of a stretch, quite literally, but his efforts were rewarded when his searching fingers closed over a small metal key. Grinning, he pulled it out.

His grin faded when he got a better look at it.

"Oh, that's just not fair," he said unhappily, staring at the key. It was his spare key, yes. But it was the wrong spare key. He'd changed the locks after his eighth regeneration, and the TARDIS, mindful of his intentions, had kept his spare key's hiding place unchanged as she'd repaired herself. But he hadn't needed it in years, and he'd never thought to replace the key he kept in there.

Looking at it brought back so many memories. Too many. Gallifrey—

No, he couldn't. He didn't have time. He needed to get his key from Lisbon so that he could go back and find out precisely what happened in Bluewater on that transitional 1999 night. He was sure he'd find something out. It couldn't just be some random stroke that had made time bunch up here. Well, at least there was, nine times out of ten, a reasonable explanation. He supposed it _could_ be random, the one in a trillion, a million, billion, points where time—where reality—didn't seal itself up smoothly. But with him, that wasn't often the case.

Besides, he already knew something had been here. The Tryl'c'ark who'd nicked his key in the first place, for one. But he could find no sign of it now when he scanned with the sonic screwdriver; it was long gone. Not that the Tryl'c'ark particularly had a reputation for sticking around; they moved about with their mischief making. But what really worried him was the object Patrick Jane had called a rock. The Doctor was a bit annoyed with himself for not realizing its importance right off the bat, but it hadn't clicked until Jane had mentioned it. He would have preferred to go look at it immediately to find out what it really was—because he _knew_ it wasn't a rock, or at least not an ordinary Earth rock, but he needed a closer look to determine precisely where it came from and therefore what properties it was likely to have—but he wasn't particularly keen on doing that with Jane about. Their earlier conversation certainly had confirmed the Doctor's suspicions that the man was terribly observant and rather clever, and he, personally, really didn't want to get into any more trouble than he was already headed for—something he doubted he would be able to accomplish if he spent any amount of time with Jane, whom the Doctor recognized as being a fellow well-meaning troublemaker.

Of course, being the conniving manipulator he surely was, Jane had probably found the Doctor's key and given it to Lisbon himself.

The Doctor sighed. If Lisbon had worked with Jane for any length of time, it wouldn't be very easy to get his key back without what she considered a proper explanation. And the Doctor had the distinct feeling that their definitions of proper explanations were slightly different. Besides, she'd already proven that she was quick on the draw when it came to getting him in handcuffs. Though, he supposed he may have to get used to it. River had had handcuffs, after all.

But he shouldn't think about that right now. It was all spoilers. Too many things around River had been spoilers. The handcuffs, the screwdriver, the adventures she'd spoken of, opening the TARDIS—

The Doctor blinked, and slowly a wide grin spread over his face. He pocketed the defunct spare key, held his arm out, and snapped his fingers. The doors to the TARDIS swung open.

His grin faded a bit as he remembered the last time he'd done that. He preferred to still use his key, when he had it, but he supposed it was good to know that he'd be able to get into the TARDIS without one when he needed to. Providing she let him. Frankly, he wasn't convinced she hadn't had an inkling about the DoctorDonna. She may not have known everything, but surely she'd felt something pushing them together, sensed that the timeline had been manipulated to twine their fates. But if she had, she'd hidden it from him.

That, in his opinion, wasn't fair. He certainly couldn't hide things from her.

The TARDIS's hum changed slightly as he went inside. "I'm not sulking," he told her, though his tone of voice said otherwise. He closed the doors and started working the controls on the console, trying his very best to ignore his beloved ship.

It didn't work.

"All right, I admit it," he said sourly. "I'm sulking. Or I was. But right now, I'm…." He trailed off, looking up at the time rotor. "I think it's my fault," he admitted. "I never looked to see if anything didn't seal up properly. I'd just assumed it had. I mean, I'd watched out for anything unusual. This bit, it must've been lying dormant all this time. I don't know what jarred it awake. An anachronism, maybe. From the War. I never was convinced that I'd found all the shrapnel from it, the things that weren't pulled out of time or locked away. If someone got a hold of something, and they didn't know what it was…." He couldn't finish, but he didn't need to.

"Come on, old girl," he said, patting the console gently. "We have to go stitch things up. We'd better get to it."

* * *

Wayne Rigsby wasn't sure what to make of Dr. Smith—or the Doctor, as he kept telling them to call him. He'd put up enough of a fuss at the start, but he'd quieted down now. Of course, considering they were partway through the flight, it was about time. He didn't _look_ happy, but at least he'd stopped muttering to himself. He didn't seem like the type of person who stayed quiet, though, so it didn't surprise Rigsby when the Doctor opened his mouth again.

"Does it always take this long to get somewhere?" the Doctor asked.

"I'm sure you've been on longer flights," Rigsby answered.

"Oh, I don't know about that. It'd depend on how you looked at it." The Doctor shook his head. "But, honestly, does time _always_ pass so slowly? Because usually, I never seem to have enough of it, but _now_…."

"I'd appreciate it," Van Pelt said without looking up from her book, "if you two wouldn't have that conversation again."

"You did tell Lisbon we were coming, right?" Rigsby asked, not only because he was desperate to break off the conversation with the Doctor but also because he genuinely wanted to know. She hadn't answered him last time.

"She'll find out soon enough," the Doctor pointed out. He didn't sound entirely happy about that.

"Jane should have told her," Van Pelt replied, looking up. "He's the one who booked our tickets. I got a text from him after I left him a message about our friend here. I was hoping he might have some idea about…." She trailed off, looking a bit uneasy.

The Doctor looked horrified. "Oh, don't tell me you told him everything. Really, don't." He grimaced as he read Van Pelt's expression. "And how much did you tell him, exactly?"

"I informed him of the relevant information," Van Pelt replied simply. "I'm sure that, if he had answered his phone, I would have had to give him more in answer to his questions."

"Maybe so, but if your definition of 'relevant information' is what I _think_ it is, I'm not so sure I like it." The Doctor snapped his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as he started muttering to himself again.

Rigsby figured he might as well state the obvious. Nodding in the Doctor's direction, he asked, "You mean you told Jane some of the things he's been saying?"

"I thought he might be able to sort it out," Van Pelt answered with an apologetic shrug. "Next thing I know, he's booked the three of us plane tickets. Heaven knows from where. It was early enough that they'd still be out questioning people; it was probably from some poor soul's computer. You know Jane; he never sticks around for an entire session. He wanders in and out until he gets himself thrown out, more often than not."

"But the question is," the Doctor cut in, "how much does he really know? _Really _know. Not just guesswork."

"Everything Jane does is guesswork," Rigsby said. "He's just always right." He frowned. "Wait, how do you know him if you've been with us the entire time? Is this some practical joke of his?"

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "We've been through this," he said, "and clearly, I was right when I said it didn't bear for you to think about it. I'll put it simply, shall I? I'm in two places at once."

"No, but what—"

"I'm serious," the Doctor interrupted. "And before the end of this, you'll believe me. Because it's not impossible when it's the truth; it's merely improbable. Well, at least for you. For me, it's more of a way of life."

"You'd really like to have us believe you, wouldn't you?" Van Pelt asked, looking amused. "But why not pick a more plausible story?"

"I've tried," the Doctor replied. "And, believe me, when your world turns upside down and I start making sense to you, you'll be glad I started telling you the truth when I did."

* * *

Lisbon was beginning to think things would look better in the morning. She'd spent the better part of the day running around questioning people, but it was all for nought. Nothing made sense. No one knew anything. Even Jane hadn't pointed something out that she found useful in solving this case.

They had a motel booked in Earp, which was the closest one they could find to Bluewater, and she was sorely tempted to just go there now. She knew she couldn't—it wasn't even four o'clock yet—but she didn't feel as if she was doing anything useful here. Cho was still talking to the neighbours, as far as she knew, and clearly he hadn't found anything out or he would have called her. And Jane…. Jane was watching Dr. Smith. The Doctor. Whatever he went by. She wasn't sure which man gave her a worse headache.

Jane, at least, was a familiar pain. She was _used_ to that particular throbbing in her head. But the Doctor? She didn't know what to make of him.

Or the fact that he was right, and she really couldn't remember some of those little things that she'd never cared about before. Forget breakfast; she couldn't remember if she'd even had lunch, let alone what she'd eaten if she had. She didn't feel particularly hungry, but she never did when she was busy. Her mind was on other things. But perhaps that was all it was now; she had too much on her mind, and when she tried, specifically, to remember something so unimportant, her mind just froze and she couldn't do it.

It was a more logical explanation, at any rate, and the one she preferred to believe.

Jane had some crazy ideas, but they, at least, contained a modicum of sense. The Doctor's theory did not.

"I don't know why I'm even thinking about this," Lisbon muttered. "I have better things to be thinking about." The trouble was that nothing she had to think about was particularly pleasant, seeing as she'd been rehashing the same facts and stories over in her head since she'd gotten here.

She needed someone to take her frustration out on. Where was Jane when she needed him? In five minutes, she'd probably have a perfectly good excuse for ranting at him. Surely he'd gotten into something by now. He did every other time.

When Jane _did_ catch up with her, less than ten minutes later, a small part of Lisbon was pleased to note that he was alone. That gave her the excuse she needed to start grousing; Jane was disobeying her orders. He wasn't with the Doctor, so unless he had some phenomenal news—along the lines of telling her who had murdered these people, or at the very least nudging her in the right direction as he normally preferred—she was well within her rights to raise her voice a little.

Of course, it would feel so much more rewarding if he never had that smug look on his face when she did it, as if he _knew_ she was just looking for some excuse to rant and he was being the saint for providing it.

"So?" she asked. "Where's Dr. Smith?"

"Oh, he won't be gone long," Jane replied, trying to avoid her question.

"So where is he?" she repeated bluntly.

"I left him on his own for a bit."

"You didn't even follow him?" That surprised her. It really did. She would've bet the Doctor intrigued Jane enough to be tailed practically anywhere.

"He asked me not to," Jane admitted.

"And that worked?" Lisbon couldn't help herself; she started to laugh. "Geez, if I'd _known_—"

"By letting him go now," Jane cut in, "I was showing that I trusted him. He's the type who'll return it. We'll need that. And he may be a fraud through and through, but he still knows his stuff. He's brilliant. A bit crazy, but it happens to the best of us."

"So who is he, then? Really?"

"Cryptic," Jane replied. "And probably not entirely sure himself."

"_Jane_—"

"I'm perfectly serious," Jane said, his expression telling her the same thing as his words. But she knew him well enough not to trust either of them without good reason. He'd played her for the fool enough times. "But you don't need to worry; he's not your murderer, and he doesn't know who is. He's here for the same reason we are: to find out what happened."

"But then how are we supposed—"

"He's going to be keeping his secrets," Jane interrupted. Again. "But he can't keep them forever. Not all of them. You'll get your answer before we're through, Lisbon. Don't worry about it so much."

"I am not worrying."

"Sure you are," Jane countered. "You've got that worrying twitch of yours."

"What? I do not have a 'worrying twitch'!"

"Sure you do. And—yes, there it is, that angry one." Jane grinned at her. "You're frustrated."

"You're being immature," she said stiffly.

"Nope. Just truthful."

If anyone would drive her to murder, it would be Jane. Jane, with his infuriating, smug, know-it-all attitude. But she put up with it, and if she was honest with herself, she preferred him being there more than him not being there. It was more than just the rote response that she told the higher-ups time and again—that he closed cases. It was…. Well, she wasn't quite sure what it was. But it was there, whatever it was. And he did close cases. And she was fairly certain that he'd close this one.

"Shouldn't be too long now," Jane mused, checking his watch.

That caught her interest. "What shouldn't be too long?" she asked warily, not sure she'd like the answer.

"And there's Cho," Jane said, pointing ahead of them. "We'll be one big, happy family again soon enough."

"Jane," Lisbon started, a warning now in her tone, "what shouldn't be too long?"

"Of course," Jane continued, blatantly ignoring her, "we might've found reason to get together anyhow if you'd had forensics in here sweeping the crime scene, but—"

"Wait, just…hold on." Lisbon stared at him. "I thought Officer Waterer had done that already! I thought we were waiting on the results."

"Is that what he told you?" Jane raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. Or did you just assume that?"

"How do you know he didn't?" Lisbon challenged.

"Well, the Doctor was all set on preserving the crime scene, for one, and he seems to know more about it than you. Frankly, Lisbon, you're slipping a bit, aren't you? Bit forgetful when it comes to protocol. Maybe you need some more sleep. Or a vacation."

_Had_ she forgotten and continued on, acting on her assumption? But that was important. She wouldn't forget something like that. Little, personal things, yes. But not something like this. She wouldn't. She just wouldn't.

Would she?

* * *

Being unsure of how formal the particular party he was going to be crashing was, the Doctor decided to wear his black tux. It was, he figured, an experiment. He believed that something bad happened whenever he wore it, and he thought it hardly coincidental that his luck would be just that bad every single time he put it on. Someone had tried to crash the starship _Titanic_ into the Earth the last time he'd worn it, and he'd only prevented that with the help and sacrifices of some _very_ good people, some quick thinking on his part, and a good deal of luck—the three of those in varying orders, with one getting him out of the trouble the other caused. Now, some other people, such as Martha, thought it was all in his head or simply the fact that _he_ was the one who attracted trouble like a magnet, so this was a perfect time to see who was right.

The worse thing that happened here was something he couldn't prevent: Edith Waterer's death. And he hadn't caused that. If nothing else that he classified as _very bad_ happened, then Martha was right.

He rather hoped, just this once, that she would be, even if it would mean that he was wrong.

Deciding it would be more difficult to slip in if he took the front door, the Doctor nipped around the back. The house had one of those sliding glass doors that opened out onto the patio, and he was all set to sonic it when he realized it didn't look, well, quite right. Frowning, the Doctor reached out a hand to touch it.

His hand went right through it.

"Oh, that's not right," he muttered, pulling his hand back. The damage caused by the opened Eye of Harmony had been reversed, the entire adventure he'd had with Grace Holloway looped out of the timeline. When he went back to this night like he was now, he should only hit the mended timeline, where everything was fixed up and as it should be.

Well, that just proved that he was right, and Martha was wrong. Because this was most certainly _very bad_. He'd at least thought he'd make it inside and talk to a few people before something went wrong, but no. He'd noticed it right away. At least he could be confident that it wasn't an open Eye that was causing this. The only way that was possible was if something had happened and he'd somehow been thrown into the looped portion of the timeline. But he would have noticed that, or at least the TARDIS would have, so he would have gotten some warning.

But if that wasn't what had caused it, he wasn't entirely certain what had. It wasn't just the wound he'd come to investigate, or the improper sealing of the fractured timeline, which he was beginning to think was part of the cause of the wound itself. Because this wrinkled bit of time with its underlying pockets of instability had been dormant, not active. He might expect something of this sort if it was active, but it shouldn't be, not now.

Switching the settings on the sonic screwdriver, the Doctor tried to see if he could pick anything up. There ought to be something. Some temporal residue, perhaps, or traces of whatever was causing reality to warp at the moment, or even some frequency or another that would give him a hint as to what was going on.

But there was nothing.

Not even an indication that _he_ had travelled in time, which meant, in all likelihood, that whatever was causing this was very, very clever, and had devised some sort of cloak, blanketing the trails and snuffing out anything that might serve as a lead for him. Or that whatever it was had blocked itself from sonic detection, but that was unlikely, seeing as the reason his sonic screwdriver worked so well was that it was usually underestimated. But, he supposed, it was no more unlikely than something having the same effects as an opened Eye.

Wondering if he'd find anything to further peak his interest inside, the Doctor slipped through the glass and wandered in. The party didn't seem unusual, or even especially large; just a gathering of friends. He was nearest to the kitchen, where there was a table set up with treats, and people were sitting on the few chairs they'd pulled together or standing in small clusters, nibbling on their treats or sipping their punch, and he could hear more voices in the living room. All happy, all unaware of the current state of affairs, and all, he hoped, accepting of him.

He weaved his way to the table and picked up some sort of hors d'oeuvre to sample while he got a better look around. For all the instability of this place, there didn't seem to be a wound here now, which meant, if he was right, as he very nearly always was, that whatever had caused the wound to open, the bridge to be formed, hadn't happened yet. Of course, this could be one of those rare times where it _was_ better to examine a wound in the _precise_ spot where it had been, or rather would be, created, rather than looking at it from sideways on first. It was just that he'd hoped to get a better idea of its size and its extent before plunging on in. Not that that never worked; often it did. Eventually. With a bit of luck.

Fortunately, it wasn't long before someone _did_ notice him, and he was soon happily engaged in conversation, spinning out his tale of how he'd arrived late and, admittedly, uninvited, but how he had once met up with Edith, oh, _years_ back, and how he'd wanted to see her again once he'd finally found out where she'd gotten to because, though they'd used to write, they'd lost touch, and so on and so forth. "I only just arrived," the Doctor repeated, "and I haven't seen her yet. Do you know where she is?" He had a few reasons for this, not the least of which was Lloyd Waterer himself, who had just walked into the room. Whilst the Doctor suspected the events of this night had turned into a bit of a blur for the poor man, he didn't want any memories to be triggered in the future, and avoiding contact with him would be best.

"Oh, she's just in the living room," came the response from the somewhat astounded man who had had the misfortune to ensnare the Doctor's attention. "Straight down that hallway; can't miss it."

"Thank you," the Doctor said, beaming. He started manoeuvring through the crowd, avoiding Officer Waterer as he skirted around visiting groups.

The Doctor hadn't, exactly, planned what he was going to say to Edith. But as it turned out, he didn't need to. He heard the crash before he even reached the living room, and though he knew he couldn't do anything to help, he bounded into the room to try.

He'd sprung into action immediately, nattering away as he did, trying—because he always had to try—to change what he knew he couldn't, to call back the soul that had wandered farther than he ever had. But he was too late, of course. He always was too late, and always would be, when it came to things like this.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. He didn't say anything more. He didn't need to. He got to his feet and moved back, accidentally bumping into someone who had been standing behind him.

And then he realized he'd gathered a crowd.

A crowd that just so happened to include Lloyd Waterer.

And Jenny Blake.

And the Doctor suddenly had a horrible feeling that, even if he could explain nothing else, he knew _precisely_ where the wound in time had come from.

* * *

A/N: All right, I'll admit there're probably a few people who guessed how the Doctor would get into the TARDIS, but I don't think my stories are terribly predictable on the whole, are they? I should hope not; it would take so much of the fun out of guessing. *grins* I welcome all who care to try, though. Thanks to those who have reviewed, be it guessing or just pointing something out or whatever else.


	8. Chapter 8

Lisbon was not entirely sure if she really ought to be as surprised as she was when she saw Van Pelt and Rigsby, especially after Jane's earlier comments. It hadn't been long, perhaps twenty minutes, since she and Jane had met up with Cho and he'd suggested they all go for a bite to eat. It had been on the early side, not yet five, and she'd wondered if she really hadn't eaten lunch and Jane knew it.

"Polly's," Cho had noted when Jane had stopped in front of the café. "Where Jenny works."

Lisbon had begun thinking that Jane's ulterior motive had been a bit more practical after all, and she'd dearly hoped that he was using this as an excuse to pursue one lead or another, even if he didn't have the decency to tell any of them that. His behaviour hadn't denied that assumption, seeing as he'd picked a table in the corner where, though rather large for just the three of them, he was able to keep an eye on everything that was going on around him, and he had gotten up at one point to ask something of their waitress, though she hadn't been sure what. The arrival of Rigsby and Van Pelt, with a rather sullen-looking Doctor in tow, at a time that suspiciously coincided with their dinner—and a few extra dishes—had had her rethinking things a bit.

"So you decided to join us after all, Dr. Smith?" Lisbon asked wryly.

Van Pelt and Rigsby looked surprised by that, but the Doctor perked up. "Oh, have I left already?" he asked, resuming his earlier tactic of nonsense. "That's a bit of luck, then. Hadn't thought I had. Bit funny, though; the time doesn't—"

"Lisbon," Rigsby interrupted, "we brought this one from Sacramento."

"You're the double?' Lisbon asked, genuinely surprised. "Well, twin, I suppose," she amended, correcting herself, "but what would you two be bothering with this for?" That was what she hadn't understood from the start. Even if their involvement was due to one of them committing the crime, she couldn't reason why the other would announce himself to the CBI—or how he would know to go to the CBI in the first place and track down the other two members of her team.

"Just me, I'm afraid," the Doctor said. "And I'm bothering because I have to, because something's not right and I'm the only one to fix it. Now you said I'd left already?"

"Well, yes, but what—?"

"The Doctor," Van Pelt cut in, seeing Lisbon's growing confusion, "seems to believe that he is capable of time travel."

"Oh, it's more than that, from what you told me," Jane corrected. "He's not just capable of it; he's done it. More than once."

"You're rather cheerful for a sceptic," the Doctor noted dully.

Jane shrugged. "I'm waiting to see what you can gain from this."

"Or until you can use logical facts and figures to disprove every word I say?" the Doctor asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. "We've had this conversation, Patrick Jane. I could have it again, but I don't like to repeat myself." He paused, then added, "Shakespeare knew precisely what he was saying when he wrote Hamlet, you know. There _are_ more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

"You're trying to say," Lisbon said slowly, the disbelief clear in her voice, "that there's only one of you?" Completely and utterly absurd. Except…if it wasn't, some of the things he had been saying suddenly made a lot more sense.

Oh, she wasn't even going to go there. Of course it was nonsense. They were just clever planners, that's all, so clever that no one—not even Jane, it seemed—could figure out their plan, what end they were trying to achieve.

"Yes. Exactly. One of me, but at two different points in my timeline." The Doctor closed his eyes for a moment. "But this isn't how it happened. Not as I remember it. I was still here when Rigsby and Van Pelt arrived; that's how I knew who they were when I sought them out, and how I knew that I had to do that, because I'd seen the look on Grace's face. So, really, I shouldn't be gone." He opened his eyes. "But if I'm still around here, then I have to ask you lot: where have I run off to now?"

"You prefer to keep your secrets," Jane reminded him.

"And I've been doing a splendid job of that, haven't I?' the Doctor shot back, sounding sour. "But, you see, the thing is, if I _haven't_ left yet, why did I still have that conversation with you, when you were tailing me? Because that's where I was going. Or, at least, that's where _I_ went. Perhaps he did something else. But what would put that into his head, now, eh? What? Why would this all be happening too early, out of sync with the first circuit?" The Doctor looked around at them, clearly expecting an answer. When he didn't get one—a few raised eyebrows aside—he continued, "Something's changing here, and it's wrong. And dangerous. Time isn't tame. You lot, you try to corral it, marking it off the way you do, but you can't, not really. And now, because you've been ignoring me so very well, things are getting out of hand."

"How so?" Jane asked, clearly interested, even if he didn't really look like he believed the Doctor in the slightest. Then again, with Jane, it was hard to tell, and Lisbon wasn't sure what to make of things anymore.

The Doctor sighed. "If he—my first self—has already left, then we haven't a hope of fixing this up nicely and easily, namely because I wouldn't be here if I hadn't known to go, and I hadn't known to go until these two arrived." He nodded at Van Pelt and Rigsby. "But, the thing is, when you were tailing me, I was still heading for the TAR—" The Doctor stopped. "Well, my box of secrets, if you will."

"So you'd replaced your spare key?" Jane asked, giving him a sly grin, as if he was waiting for the Doctor to let something slip.

The Doctor shook his head. "No. But it turned out that I didn't need it after all." He paused. "Come to that, though, I'd like my key back, if you wouldn't mind, Lisbon." The Doctor held out his hand.

Lisbon stared between him and Jane, the latter of whom shrugged. She pulled the key Jane had given her out of her pocket. "This one?" she asked, watching the Doctor's face.

He looked relieved. "Yes, that." He reached to take it from her, but she drew her arm back.

"Not yet," she said, pocketing it again. The Doctor gave her a baffled look, and she gave him one of her best no-nonsense looks in return. She'd dealt with Jane often enough to know how to handle this sort of thing. "On with your story."

The Doctor frowned. "We don't have time for this."

"It'll take longer if you quibble about it first," Cho pointed out, speaking out for the first time, though his tone didn't reveal any of his thoughts on the situation.

"And Lisbon's stubborn as a mule," Rigsby added with a grin—though it faded slightly when he caught sight of Lisbon's indignant face.

The Doctor sighed. "Very well. But even if you think I'm just spinning you a tale for the pure pleasure of it, have the decency to remember it and listen without further interruption. Not everything is as fanciful as you would like it to be." He paused, then continued, "I did things a bit differently, I think, than they are playing out now. I'd gone off to Sacramento to collect Agents Rigsby and Van Pelt, but not before they came here, and certainly not before I'd done what I could to stitch Lisbon up. I couldn't staunch the bleeding completely, and I haven't figured out why yet. But the thing is, Lisbon, you're still bleeding. No one's tried to bandage that little cut of yours up."

Lisbon made a face at him. "You never have really told mean what you mean by that, you know."

The Doctor just looked at her. "But you know exactly what I do mean, don't you? Because you're still losing things. And it's getting worse."

"I'll have you know that I'm perfectly fine."

"If you so delight in denial, then so be it, but your claims won't change the truth of it. You're bleeding, Lisbon, and I don't know if I can get back what you've lost."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she told him, quite simply.

"I'm glad that's a lie," was all the Doctor said in response, "because we'd be in more trouble if it wasn't." Lisbon expected him to say more, but instead he resumed his tale. "I don't know how many changes can be held before something snaps," he informed them. "I don't expect it's a lot, and I'm not entirely sure what will happen when something does snap, or what that something will be. But whatever it is, I don't particularly expect it to work in our favour.

"I don't like to think, really, that whatever first changed here was sufficient to send me off without taking proper precautions—one of them being fixing Lisbon up, seeing as whatever I happen to be doing now, any mistakes I make are likely to be felt, given the temporal instability around this place, this entire town. Not that I often make mistakes, but they do happen to the best of us, and I've made far more than I care to admit, though the ones that I haven't been able to right are considerably fewer. Not that that will matter unless I find out what changed, since then I can, if I'm very lucky, trace the change back to its cause, and if I can't, and something snaps, I may not be around very long anyway. Bit hard to say where I'll end up, though, if I'm tangled in the thread that snaps. But that's assuming that I'll end up somewhere at all. I may not." He looked thoughtful for a moment, but did not seem to be entirely happy about the idea.

They waited, rather impatiently, for him to resume his telling his story, though they were polite enough after his gentle rebuke not to interrupt him again, no matter how inane he sounded. "I don't really think I went off to Sacramento," the Doctor finally said. "I wouldn't have had reason to. But I certainly seem to have gone somewhere. And that worries me. I'm not sure if I should have. Gone off, I mean. Something clearly convinced me to, but I don't know what would have. And I still haven't had a chance to get a good, long, proper look at that living room anyhow, so I don't know enough about the wound in time to guess how it will be affected by this folding. I'm _assuming_ that it'll become infected, but I don't know to what degree, and therefore I have no way of telling if that infection can spread or if I'll be able to contain it, let alone what the effects of the infection are going to be in the first place."

"I'm sorry, but I still don't understand." It was Van Pelt this time. "I know you asked for me to believe that time could be wounded, but how is that even possible?"

"There are a few different ways," the Doctor said, "but the most common is when someone's careless, and they don't watch their step, or they do something they know they shouldn't. For the most part, the past isn't written in stone. Nor is the future, for that matter. It can be changed. But while in some ways it's ridiculously easy to change something, to introduce something before its time, the timeline is resilient. It can resist a lot. Sometimes a change just becomes a story. Sometimes it fades away without so much as that for a trace. There are often many paths to one future. Sometimes the change does stand, and does make a difference, but it's only a small one. On _very _rare occasions, it's noticeable and remembered for years, but…." The Doctor trailed off, shaking his head. "Usually it fades away, and if it doesn't, all you can find is a small trace, if you're lucky, and only if you're really looking. But that doesn't mean that there aren't rules that can't be broken.

"It's not always intentional when someone breaks a rule. Some try to bend the Laws of Time without even realizing it. But sometimes the manipulation is intentional. I can't tell if that's what's happened here or not. If I look at the fact that things are changing, that the loop isn't closing like it ought to be, then I want to say it's deliberate. But what I have seen of this wound tells me that it's just a tender spot that's been ripped open, probably after an improper closure, and the indication of an earlier tear makes me think it's purely accidental. There are many different kinds of wounds, and many different kinds of causes, and more factors and terms for each of them than I have time to tell you. It's complicated and complex, each intricate detail more significant than you'd think at a glance." The Doctor stopped. "But none of that, taken alone, really answers your question, does it? I'll just add this, then: most often, a wound occurs when something that should never have happened does, or when something that ought to happen doesn't, or when time doesn't meet up properly as it should."

"And less often?" Van Pelt prompted.

The Doctor hesitated, looking like he didn't want to answer. "Less often," he admitted, "a wound is created when someone, or something, purposely tears time open."

"But why—?"

Looking uncomfortable, the Doctor interrupted, "You'd rather not know," and left it at that.

* * *

There were times when the Doctor did not like to be caught in a conversation, but those were usually times when he couldn't avoid it, no matter how much he might want to. Like now. He'd managed to slip out of the spotlight, leaving the stricken Lloyd Waterer to grieve for his wife, and he'd weaseled his way past most of the shocked onlookers, all the sniffling family and friends. All except for two—the man he'd been speaking with earlier, and Jenny Blake.

"What was it?" Jenny asked, still looking shocked herself, though not so shocked that she couldn't block his escape.

"I'd guess," the Doctor answered, "her heart." Not that it was a guess, but she certainly didn't know that. He had to leave quickly. This couldn't be memorable, not for her. He hadn't sensed it, so it shouldn't—

But he _had_ sensed a bit of Edith coming through, and from what he'd just seen, that wasn't possible. The wound hadn't been opened—well, not until he'd been noticed by two people he wouldn't meet for, oh, another ten years or so, linear time—so she wouldn't have been able to get through. Well, perhaps it _would_ be possible, but only if it were planned, but if it were, then he ought to be able to find traces of it. Trouble was, he couldn't _search_ for those traces until he shook off Jenny and the other bloke.

"Her heart? Edith?" The man sounded incredulous. "But it's never given her any trouble. How can you know?"

"Oh, hush up, Colin. He ought to know. He's the Doctor, after all." Jenny was smiling at him, but it was a sad smile.

The Doctor's hearts skipped a beat.

This was bad.

This was _very_ bad.

Very, _very_ bad.

The connection had been made quickly, far more quickly than he'd anticipated. The Jenny he'd met, so far into the future, was slowly losing her memories, her mind, her very self. And this younger version of her was receiving that knowledge, _using_ it, and not seeming the least bit perturbed. Which had to mean that it felt natural. As if she knew him from an earlier encounter, or someone's stories, or something. But that couldn't be, because she hadn't known him when he'd first met her, so many years in her future.

Unless she really _had_ encountered him earlier, and that was one of the memories that she'd lost.

The Doctor considered this for less than a second before dismissing it. Not so much because it didn't fit the pattern, but because he'd been inside Jenny's mind. He'd seen the traces of the memories that had been torn from her, bled out, pulled into the past. They'd been impossible to avoid, and he'd had to manoeuvre around a number of gaps, holes, crevices, what have you, as he'd searched for the ends of her cut to stitch her up properly. But he hadn't found them, and now he was wondering whether he had missed something, or if it was simply because Jenny's cut was so large that she couldn't encompass it, and therefore there was no way he, inside her head and therefore limited by her own limitations, would be able to find the ends of it to make sure that he had stitched everything up well.

"Oh, you're a doctor?" Colin asked, looking him up and down. Then he smiled ruefully. "Sorry. I suppose I wasn't expecting it. I'm not sure why; perhaps because I've never met a British doctor before. Did you meet Edith back when she travelling, then?"

"Well, that's how travelling usually goes, isn't it?" the Doctor asked, avoiding the question and still desperately trying to assess the situation.

He'd been tricked into creating a wound in time; he knew that much. Things hadn't met up as they should, and this was the unhappy result. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd been tricked into it, or by what, and though he really had no idea why, he imagined that it wasn't for anything particularly pleasant. Whatever was behind it all was powerful, though, to make Jenny an unwitting receptacle so quickly, and to mimic the effects of an open Eye of Harmony.

But if the memories were bleeding through to this time, as they so clearly were, who was receiving young Julia's memories? And, more pressingly, what had happened to the bodies of the Williams family? If he saw them, he might be able to piece together what had done this. Being told that they had been 'torn apart' didn't help him much. Quite aside from the fact that that assessment may be wrong altogether, he could think of more than a dozen ways that that could have happened and had no means of narrowing it down without seeing any of the evidence.

The bodies ought to have been the first things to come through, but they hadn't. Yet he was still willing to bet that they had been pulled into the open wound. They wouldn't have just been lost. Things didn't happen like that. They had to have gone somewhere. They might have been absorbed, but he didn't know by what, though he hadn't exactly had a chance to look for traces of residue, and he would find traces if they had been absorbed, whether it was by some alien creature who really would regret coming to Earth by the time he was through or by the wound in time itself.

There was only a thin skin that separated a wound in time from the Void, after all. But if that had been breached, he would most definitely have known. This house—this entire town—was unlikely to still be here, for one. The town would have literally fallen off the map, consumed as the breach tried to close itself. Well, that was assuming nothing was interfering with all the necessary processes. Or interfering at all, actually. Or—

Still. Point was, the bodies weren't still within the wound, as far as he could tell. So he was missing something, something that would let him figure all this out, something that would tell him what he was up against. Something that he needed to find out, sooner rather than later, if he was going to get out of this mess.

He couldn't save Julia. Now, he was beginning to doubt that he could save Jenny. But he didn't know how many other people had walked into that room, like Lisbon, been cut, and were slowly bleeding. Their memories, it seemed, once any useful information had been extracted from them, became fuel. Fuel for whatever was slowly bending reality out of shape, slowing folding time back into itself, rewriting the future.

And destroying the timeline in the process.

Funny thing, though. He couldn't see any of that, not even when he looked for it. It was as if, absurdly, time was dead. Unmoving. Not just standing still—he'd experienced that. That was different. It was…void, in a way, but not a product of the Void, or something that existed within it—he knew what that felt like, too, and this wasn't it. He felt like he was in a temporal vacuum of sorts, but that…. It was hard to describe. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

Because as utterly alien as it was, as wonderfully and horribly new to him as it was, it felt somehow familiar.

Like he ought to know what was going on.

But he didn't.

And it wasn't something, he knew, that he'd simply forgotten, by choice or otherwise. He always had a sense of something when he did that, and this didn't bring any traces to mind. And there were always traces. It was impossible to create something without traces.

Which was why he was, just a little bit, terrified of whatever had done this, because he'd found no traces with his sonic screwdriver earlier, not even a hint of a trace that he could follow, if he only kept looking. There was nothing. But there was never nothing; everything left traces. So why couldn't he find them?


	9. Chapter 9

Grace Van Pelt wasn't entirely sure why she'd persisted in questioning the Doctor. The others clearly disbelieved him, though they were willing to humour him. She was humouring him, too, but…. It was more than that. The things he'd said and the things they'd turned up…. She was almost willing to believe it. Perhaps her heart believed it already, but her mind did not. She couldn't quite tell.

But if he was lying, she couldn't see the sense in it.

And if it was a lie, if this entire thing was formulated and planned—it would have taken a lot of work, and no one would have bothered to go about it all without some reason, some goal. It would have taken years. The Easter egg she'd found, for instance, was at least three years old. And the slip of the Doctor's that had led her to it hadn't seemed intentional, even to her trained eyes and ears. She'd resolved to keep looking, searching for more traces, more fragments to piece together so that she could discover the whole story and see the whole picture. But at the same time, she knew that would be impossible, if so much as a word that the Doctor was saying was true. If he really was a time traveller, then she had no idea how she could make sense of anything she found.

Then again, if she was going to believe that it was all true, she could always start in 1969 and work from there.

But did she _want_ to believe that it was all true?

Time travel would be amazing, but it could also be horrifying. So many things could go wrong. She took for granted what she had, more often than not, though she thanked God for it more than once a day. But if the stability she depended upon, the sturdy foundation of the unchangeable past, were but imagined—

No, that was going too far. She was just being silly. She wasn't going to abandon logic and reason and the fundamental laws she knew of the world simply because some crazy man—or a pair of them—had a silver tongue. But that resolve only reminded her of the Doctor's other words: he wouldn't make sense until her world turned upside down. And while she desperately wanted to be able to make sense of it all, she didn't want things to go that far. Trouble was, they seemed to have gone quite far already.

"I need to get another look at that room," the Doctor was saying, "but I have to do it alone. It's dangerous for you. And if you won't even let me _try_ to stitch you up again, Lisbon, I don't want you anywhere _near_ that wound. You're safer out here."

Lisbon laughed. "And how are you going to stitch up an imaginary cut, with an invisible needle and thread?" The defiance was there, as it usually was, but it was more noticeable this time, as if it were trying to cover something else up.

"Oh, my method is much more effective than that," the Doctor promised, though he didn't volunteer what, exactly, that method was. Instead, he continued, "I know the wound is still open, but I'm hoping that I've left it long enough that I—and just me, not any of you, because I have experience with this and you do not—can examine it safely. Hopefully. Well, theoretically." He paused again. "Going by what I've seen so far, you'll want to check up on me, but can I suggest that you not do that until after you've eaten? You might need your strength."

He was right; no one had touched their food, a few nibbles aside.

And Van Pelt, at least, hadn't seen him eat anything, though he had taken a drink of the water in front of him. That was just once, though, and, having tasted hers, she wasn't entirely sure that she blamed him for leaving it. Besides, they all had more important things on their mind than food. She, for one, wasn't even sure she should be here. She didn't exactly have permission to leave—neither did Rigsby, for that matter. And Jane…. Well, Jane could only get away with so much, and she wasn't convinced that he would be able to talk them out of all the trouble he got them into every single time.

It was still her own fault for listening to him, she supposed, but she'd been curious. That wasn't an excuse, but if they could prove themselves useful, if they could close this case in record time, then perhaps it would be overlooked.

It wasn't as if she and Rigsby had managed to turn anything up back in Sacramento, anyway. There were no similar cases to this anywhere in the States in the last ten years or in California in the last fifty. And they couldn't find anything pertinent to the Williams themselves; the family members, under that name, did not exist. And no lead they'd followed would tell them who, exactly, the family actually _was_. Apparently, they weren't in Witness Protection, but neither had anyone had their names legally changed to anything that was a match, and it seemed that every potential trail they followed stopped dead before they found the answer. Whoever had killed them, it seemed, had managed to scrub their files.

All of them.

Which in itself was far more disturbing than she cared to admit.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight again," Lisbon said, pushing her plate away.

Jane pushed it back. "You're hungry," he said. "You can eat. I'll watch him."

Van Pelt knew from the look Lisbon gave Jane that she wasn't inclined to trust him, either, but didn't want to bother fighting it. "Fine," Lisbon agreed, picking up her fork and stabbing at a lettuce leaf with far more vigour than was necessary. "We'll meet you in ten minutes."

At this news, Cho and Rigsby immediately began eating themselves, the demand for explanations and information no longer sufficient distractions.

"Agreed," Jane said, before the Doctor could open his mouth.

The Doctor himself looked a bit offended that this was all arranged without him having a say, but he evidently wasn't going to quibble over it now. "Ten minutes," he commented as he got up from the table, "isn't very long. Sometimes. But we'll see if it's time enough to piece everything together now." And then he was gone, out the door and heading up the street, tailed by an amused Jane.

Wondering exactly what she was missing, Van Pelt started to eat her own dinner again, hoping things would make more sense once she'd finished it.

* * *

The Doctor was doing his best to carry on a conversation he'd rather break off when he was presented with an excellent excuse to do just that.

He'd heard a startled shriek from the living room and a few surprised comments, and it was only natural to go back and see what was going on.

What he found was a crack.

Well, not just _one_ crack, but a series of them, all branching outwards from a central point on the hardwood floor.

The Doctor knelt down to get a closer look, putting on his glasses as he did so. He stared at it for a moment. "Well, that's interesting," he finally remarked, more to himself than anyone else. There was no indication of what had caused the cracks. Well, no visual indication. Ignoring the onlookers, he pulled out his sonic screwdriver and turned it on, aiming it at the floor.

The response caused him to spring to his feet, backing away. "Get away from there," he told the people whose evening of celebration had been cut short shortly after his arrival. Reading the question in their eyes, he added, "It's unstable." He wasn't entirely sure why he answered, though. He didn't have to, not really.

Because, frankly, he wasn't entirely sure how it would affect them, if at all. It wasn't a structural instability; it was a temporal one, to a certain extent. He, personally, hadn't seen this sort before, but he recognized it for what it was.

It was something that made all the little inconsistencies he'd noticed add up to an answer he didn't particularly like, but couldn't deny.

There were still some things that didn't make sense, of course. He wasn't sure if they ever all would. But others…oh, others made a world of sense now. He'd been thick not see it before.

Hoping he wasn't caught too deeply in it all, the Doctor left without another word, ignoring any remarks addressed to him. It was a distraction, that was all. A calculated distraction. And it had worked. Oh, how it had worked. He'd been played for a fool. He needed to get back, to correct what he could _while_ he could, before things got worse.

* * *

Jane watched as the Doctor broke into the room he had, clearly, worked so hard to board up earlier. "Why go to all this trouble?" he asked.

The Doctor, who had just managed to tear off the final board, put it down and looked back at Jane. "Why?" he repeated. "Because if I hadn't done this, someone else would have come in here. And I can't afford that. I don't know how many people have wandered into this room, but I've seen what it does to them." He stopped for a moment. "I'll need to take another look at Lisbon, you know. She needs a few stitches for that cut of hers. Nothing major, but she might lose something noticeable if I don't do something soon."

Jane studied his expression for a moment. "This is all very real for you, isn't it?" he asked.

The Doctor frowned. "Patrick Jane, even if you don't believe me, at least don't stop me from doing what I have to do. Because if you stick around me, I can guarantee that you'll see things that you can't explain away. And I know you're trying to. You're reluctant to accept that things can change. The past may not be written in stone, but that doesn't mean that what you wish would change can. There are rules, and things aren't pretty when those rules are broken. Trust me." The Doctor stopped, then added, "You might call me a madman by the end of this. You might think yourself one. But—"

"There's a method to your madness?" Jane guessed.

The Doctor grinned. "That there is," he agreed enthusiastically. But then he looked back into the room, and his grin faded. "This shouldn't have happened," he admitted. "If I'd been more careful, they would still have been alive."

"You don't look like the sort of person who's been tracking a killer," Jane commented.

The Doctor raised his eyebrows at that, and opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. "No one killed them, exactly," the Doctor finally said, never voicing, Jane knew, whatever his earlier thoughts were. "They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Innocent victims caught up in something they would never have noticed. _Could_ never have noticed, simply because you lot aren't sensitive to the nature of the wound. Well, very few are. I suppose you do get the odd one who is. But generally no one pays any attention to them." The Doctor glanced at the room again before looking back at Jane. "Will you stay out here, where it's safe?" He didn't sound like he believed he'd receive an affirmative answer.

"You haven't exactly proved that it's a danger," Jane pointed out.

The Doctor sighed. "And Lisbon's normally like that, is she? All forgetful?" He shook his head. "I can't, in good conscience, let you in there without protection."

Jane shrugged. "So give me some protection."

The Doctor hesitated. "You don't trust me," he said carefully, "and I'd rather not do anything when you don't trust me."

"Then I'll trust you," Jane replied easily.

The Doctor pulled a face, clearly not believing him. "You can't really change the way you feel that quickly. Not with that sort of thing. It's not a decision you can just make with your mind and expect your instincts to follow suit."

"Then perhaps," Jane countered, "I'm simply changing my mind to agree with my instincts."

Still the Doctor wavered, weighing stubbornness and beliefs against necessity and principles. Finally he stated, very clearly, "You'll have most of the pieces to the puzzle if I do this, and you're clever enough to piece it all together. I'll have to ask that you don't, well, _tell_ everyone everything. If I end up telling them, I'd like to do it myself. But I'd almost rather not, at least not yet. Things…don't always go like I plan, when I start things like that. Sometimes people go along with me, but somehow I don't think…." The Doctor trailed off. "Somehow," he repeated, "I don't think all of you would be quite comfortable with the whole truth. You lot are sort of…a bit more…well, not down-to-earth, exactly, but…."

"Factual?" Jane supplied, remembering their earlier conversation—for if he ignored rational logic in favour of irrational, rather nonsensical, logic, as the Doctor clearly wanted him to do, then it had been the two of them who had conversed about facts and figures earlier that day.

He knew frauds and conmen and the like when he saw them, though. As they say, it takes one to know one. He knew what to look for. He could categorize people, correctly, every time he tried. Sometimes it took him a bit longer, sometimes people were harder to place, but he always managed it.

Except this time.

Because this time, it seemed the Doctor was right: he, Patrick Jane, couldn't explain everything away, no matter how much he tried.

But he wasn't a fool, and he knew how far to push it, how far to go, to find out more without really being in any trouble. Well, _trouble_ could be loosely defined, but more often than not the consequences were minor inconveniences, like being locked up in jail. He always got out of it in the end. And he always uncovered the truth in the end.

And he would this time, too.

"You've dealt with this sort of thing before, Doctor," Jane pointed out, "so yes, I'll trust you. You know more than I do."

That last admission was not one he'd make if members of the team were around, but it did the trick. The Doctor relented, agreeing to give him the proper protection.

That protection was not what Jane had been expecting.

Well, not the sort of thing he would have been expecting to work, anyway.

But even he couldn't deny that the Doctor had done something, no matter how much he longed to protest _how_ the Doctor had done it, because he was faced with something where his past experiences failed him and his mind tricks and readings of people paled away and the world that he'd been pretending didn't—couldn't—exist was taking on a terrifying quality of truth that was a bit too close to reality for comfort.

* * *

The minute he was finished, the Doctor stepped back and, using Jane's shock to his advantage, bounded into the room to get a better look around. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver, waving it around, trying to make sense of the readings—and strange lack thereof, in some cases—that he was getting. They were not very comforting.

Jane didn't comment on the device when he joined the Doctor, though the Doctor suspected he would have, were he not preoccupied with accepting the fact that he couldn't explain away how the Doctor had constructed a mental barrier around his mind, shielding him from the effects of the wound. Instead, Jane cut straight to the point, motioning to a small rock that lay untouched on the bloodied coffee table. "So if you don't think the murderer put that bit of quartz there, who did?"

The Doctor, having just examined the stone fragment, stepped back and looked up at Jane. "Bit of quartz?" he repeated in disbelief. "That's a fragment of an Ilsyrian crystal! It's a _weapon_—it'll start a chain of biochemical reactions that'll—" The Doctor stopped, realization striking him. "That'll…tear you apart," he finished slowly. "Anyone who touches it. Mutates the lysosomes, begins to denature…." The Doctor trailed off, looking like he was thinking things through, very quickly.

When he started again, he was rattling off an explanation so quickly it didn't really make sense. "But those aren't found anywhere near Earth. It would've had to've been brought here. And I'll bet whoever brought it didn't know what it was when they took it. Atmospheric changes, adjustments after travel…. It would've taken a while for it to recalibrate. But once it was primed, you could've set it off by looking at it the wrong way. And you've only so much time to get the reactions neutralized before they're too far along to stop." He paused. "Perhaps whoever took it did realize what it was, eventually, but didn't know how it worked. Ilsyrian crystals aren't used a lot yet, and even when they do come into use, they aren't widespread. Half the time, they're more trouble than they're worth. I'll bet whoever had it tried to get rid of it. It wouldn't be the first time someone decided to use Earth as a garbage dump."

"Is that so?" Jane asked. He reached over and plucked the rock from the table. Tossing it up and catching it, he said, "Seems harmless enough."

The Doctor was horrified. When he finally managed words, he said, "Put that down. Now. Drop it!"

Jane shrugged and didn't bother catching the rock, letting it fall to the hardwood floor at his feet.

The Doctor pulled out the sonic screwdriver again, unsure of how quickly it would work, how soon the processes would start. But even if they hadn't started yet, exactly, he'd find evidence that they were going to, that things were getting ready to change. If it was only just a bit of the residue that started the process on Jane's fingertips, the palm of his hand, it would be enough for him to find. And once he pinpointed them, he could stop them before things went too far.

Trouble was, he couldn't find anything.

It was just a rock. A bit of quartz.

"But it _can't_ be!" the Doctor exclaimed, getting down to the floor to get a better look at the rock. "It had to have caused all this. That's what this was, this entire mess of blood that you lot are calling a crime scene. It's what set the wound off, brought it out of its dormancy cycle—it's a spatial-temporal anomaly that shouldn't be. It had to've been; they would've set each other off! The wound would have drawn the energy it needed from the crystal, and once it was active, the crystal would've been activated because of the danger of the wound once it was ripped open and bleeding. And the Williams, because they had touched the crystal, oh, they would've been recognized as the threat, and that's why they were attacked, because they would've all handled the crystal and it would've been contaminated with traces of their DNA and…." The Doctor shook his head. "There isn't another explanation. Nothing else makes sense. Nothing else fits!"

For a minute or two, Jane didn't comment. Then he queried, "Does it have to fit?"

The Doctor, who had been re-examining the stone fragment, this time with a magnifying glass he'd produced from one of his pockets, looked up at Jane in surprise. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Does it have to fit?" Jane repeated. "Does all of this have to fit together like you expect it to? Are you sure you have it all right?"

"It's the only reasonable explanation," the Doctor protested.

Jane smirked. "This from the man who argued with me about logic and reason and facts?"

The Doctor was quiet for a moment. "So you're saying I have this all wrong?"

Jane made a noncommittal noise. "I'm saying it's possible. In my experience, if the pieces don't fit, you either don't have all the pieces or you're trying to make the wrong picture. You're saying that this entire thing doesn't make sense to you, but it ought to, because it has to be due to this crystal of yours. But what if that's not the reason it doesn't work? What if you're trying to add everything up to the wrong answer instead of examining everything and coming up with the right one?"

"True enough, I suppose," the Doctor allowed, "but I don't know what else it could be."

"Something new, that you haven't seen before," suggested Jane, "or perhaps something old, that you've overlooked, or perhaps something terrible, that you've forgotten."

The Doctor considered this. "Perhaps you're right."

Jane had the look of someone who had expected that conclusion. The Doctor knew that look quite well himself; he often wore it. But he couldn't help wishing that Jane was wrong, even though the Doctor doubted that he was, because what it meant…. If this trouble was what he had first anticipated, it would've taken some quick action on his part to fix it all up. But if Jane was right and he was mistaken, then there was unlikely to be a quick solution, simple or ingenious or otherwise.

And the longer that it took him to sort everything out, the more likely it was that someone would get hurt.

And he didn't want that; enough people had already been hurt. Julia. Jenny. Even Lisbon. And whoever else had wandered into this room, the Williams' living room, without knowing the danger it posed, without protection against that danger.

Officer Waterer had told him that they had secured the crime scene, and that he himself had pulled the strings to call in the CBI for help. But he hadn't told the Doctor who had been in that room, himself aside. And the Doctor had taken a good long look at him and realized that, for some reason, he was lying. He hadn't gone into the room. Something had been holding him back.

Whatever that something was, the Doctor was grateful for it. It had, potentially, saved Officer Waterer's life. Or, at least, his quality of life. He had never been cut, so he wasn't bleeding, and he wasn't losing anything. He was safe.

But something about all that didn't add up. Yes, the Doctor was quite thankful that Officer Waterer hadn't gone into the room, but he ought to know who had. They wouldn't have just left it. That didn't make sense. The Doctor may not, admittedly, know a lot about twenty-first century American police investigations, but someone would have been on the scene, looking for clues. They wouldn't just wait for someone else to show up. Would they? Surely not. Besides, he'd been told that they hadn't found prints, and it was unlikely that Officer Waterer had simply been referring to more footprints in the blood—but if that _had_ been all they'd looked for, it had to mean someone had dropped the ball somewhere along the line.

So that meant something about this entire investigation, this entire crime, was wrong. The murders that weren't really murders, the bodies that had disappeared, presumably into the wound in time, without leaving a trace for him to track, and an investigation that didn't really seem like it wanted everything to be resolved—something, he knew, was wrong; something _had_ to be wrong. He just couldn't figure out why.

He was missing something, and he had absolutely no idea what it was.

"But if you're right, Patrick Jane," the Doctor continued, "then we're caught up in something that even I didn't anticipate. And until I figure out what, exactly, that is, everyone's in danger, and I can't even tell you what they're in danger from." He stopped for a moment. "The pieces, as you say, don't fit. There are too many little inconsistencies about _everything_ for this to all fit together nicely. There's something off about this entire thing. Can you tell? Something's not right, but it's pretending it is, masquerading as something, hiding behind a façade of normalcy, but it got it wrong. It's skewed, somehow."

"You can't add it up," Jane surmised.

"No," the Doctor agreed, "I can't. And I ought to be able to. Because this all…." He trailed off. "This all feels like something," he started again, "that I ought to understand, ought to recognize. It feels like it should be familiar, but it's not; I've never seen this sort of thing before, not that I can remember at the moment. But it sounds like a story I should know, and I can't think what that would be."

"But you can think of why you should know it," Jane noted.

"Oh, there are plenty of reasons why I should know it," the Doctor agreed. "And I have a feeling that if I examine them all quite carefully, I may realize what this is. Because I know the answer's here, right under my nose, and I just can't see it." He sighed, and picked up the rock that he knew wasn't—couldn't be—an Ilsyrian crystal, no matter how much it appeared to be one. "It nearly adds up," he said, "but it doesn't. And the longer I spend looking at it all, the more wrong things I see."

"Do they have a common denominator?"

The Doctor hesitated. "I'm not sure, not yet," he admitted. "Likely they do, and likely that's what I'm missing. The keystone piece, the one that holds it all together, the one that completes the puzzle…." He trailed off and tossed the quartz fragment to Jane. "Keep this. It might be important. I don't know what role it plays, but I'm certain it plays one, and I don't want it lost." He paused, quietly adding, "I'd keep it myself, but if my key can be stolen from me, that can, too."

* * *

A/N: So, anyone notice all those little inconsistencies (or any at all)? Or did you just accept them, taking them as mistakes or signs of my ignorance of various things but not bothering about it all too much because it's just a story? Now, that might be true, for the most part, but the thing is, some of those little inconsistencies that don't quite add up were deliberately written in, and the fact that they exist at all is a good part of the Doctor's trouble. Of course, it doesn't help that things are changing when they shouldn't be. That's never good. *grins* Anyway, thanks to everyone who takes the time to review.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Just a quick thanks to everyone who's left me reviews, be it comments or encouragement or the like, though I suppose I ought to mention that if you take the time to leave a signed review, I quite happily take the time to reply. I've received some very nice anonymous reviews, and I find it a bit unfortunate that I'm unable to thank those people individually. So to all of you to whom this applies, thank you for telling me what you think. I appreciate it.

* * *

The Doctor was much too busy to quibble with the TARDIS when she parked herself around the corner of the local café. He'd let himself be distracted. He'd let himself be tricked. If he was _right_, he'd let himself be trapped. And if he _was_ right, he wasn't sure if what he planned to do would work. Or even if it was the right thing to do, really. Without being able to tell how much was part of the trap and how much wasn't….

He wouldn't take the risk that it wasn't, though, because it was greater than the risk that it was part of the trap. At least to him. Especially now. Which was why he'd better see if he could stitch Lisbon up before it was too late. He should have done it earlier. He really ought to have. And he _knew_ that. But…he hadn't. For some reason, he hadn't. And he wasn't really sure why.

Evidently, the TARDIS knew better than he did. He'd hardly turned the corner before he ran into Lisbon and Cho and two other people who looked to be of the same sort. "Sorry," the Doctor said, stepping back. "Wasn't watching where I was going." He was about to continue when Lisbon cut him off.

"You changed," she said bluntly, but in a tone of voice that told him she couldn't figure out why.

Oh. Right. He'd meant to change his clothes again to avoid this confusion. "Had a party to crash," he answered, though he knew she wouldn't make anything of that. "But, before you introduce me to your friends—" and here he waved a hand at the redheaded woman and the man who stood between her and Cho, both of whom were gawking at him "—mind if we have a bit of a chat? Alone?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

"What the hell are you doing?" Lisbon protested, pulling back. Her three companions—colleagues?—had followed them, and the Doctor could tell from their stances that the men, at least, were prepared to pull their guns.

Humans were so jumpy. He wouldn't mind so much if 'jumpy' didn't, very occasionally, equate to 'trigger-happy'. He'd have to go about this carefully. He didn't want to find himself shot, for whatever reason.

"Let me guess," the Doctor said, looking Lisbon straight in the eye. "You want to go and take another look at the Williams' living room?"

"Of course I do," Lisbon replied.

The Doctor glanced at the three who were watching their exchange and looked back at Lisbon. "Do you trust me?"

Lisbon's look of disbelief was clear on her face. "No," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Why should I trust you? You haven't given me any reason to, and you've given me plenty more _not_ to. You can't even tell me the truth—you just blither on about some sort of nonsense or another, trying to cover your tracks. Is it any wonder that I don't trust you?"

For a minute, the Doctor looked shocked. Then, "Right. Should've figured that." A pause. "But you still want to go and look around, right?"

Lisbon looked exasperated. "Yes!"

"Then you'll have to trust me."

They stared at each other for a moment. Finally Lisbon rolled her eyes and said, "Fine."

"You'll trust me?" the Doctor asked, clearly wanting clarification.

"For now."

Though the three onlookers had relaxed at Lisbon's words, the Doctor wasn't quite sure how long that would last. But he didn't have a choice in this, and as much as he would like to be alone when he did it, he had to get it done as soon as possible. Questions could come later, and explanations later still. "Thank you," the Doctor said. And before Lisbon could say anything else, he'd placed his hands on her temples and closed his eyes.

* * *

At first, in those first ten seconds or so which seemed like hours, Lisbon was too shocked to move.

Then she regained her senses and jerked back, blinking and shaking her head.

The Doctor stumbled backwards with a groan.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" Lisbon snapped. But in truth, she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

"Ooh," the Doctor moaned, "you couldn't've given me a bit of warning, could you? I was still holding onto the thread when you broke contact. I hardly had time to get back, let alone tie it off." He paused. "I'm not sure how long it will hold, but it ought to see you though to the end of this."

"You're absolutely nuts," Lisbon said, giving him a quick look up and down. He looked pretty pathetic at the moment, more pathetic than crazy, especially as he was leaning against the wall of the café looking like he was completely exhausted, but she didn't exactly trust the Doctor, despite what she'd said, _particularly_ after he'd done whatever he just did, so she wasn't about to trust that he was really feeling as weary as he looked.

"Boss?" Rigsby asked. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "You three keep watch on Dr. Smith, then. I'm going to go find Jane." She wasn't going to worry about why the Doctor had pretended he hadn't known full well that she was planning to head to the crime scene to get a proper look around. It was high time she did; she wasn't quite sure why she'd allowed herself to put it off. That wasn't like her, not at all. She didn't let people get in the way of something this important, not without a good reason, and the Doctor certainly hadn't provided her with a good reason. But she was hoping, just a bit, that Jane _would_ be able to provide her with a reasonable explanation for it all. To her knowledge, he hadn't been able to examine the crime scene properly, either, though their definitions of proper examinations varied, and she hoped that he would be able to tell her something when she tracked him down.

She wasn't surprised, therefore, to find Jane in the Williams' living room when she finally reached it.

She was surprised to see the Doctor, dressed again in his brown suit.

She'd blurted, "How did you get here so fast?" before she had a chance to feel silly. She'd walked, after all. If he'd managed to get away from Van Pelt and Rigsby and Cho quickly enough to get to his vehicle, he could have driven here and arrived before her. Although it was a bit curious that she hadn't seen a vehicle out front.

The Doctor, correctly assuming that she was talking to him, gave her a quizzical look. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Well, I suppose I knew what you meant, but Jane and I didn't get here especially quickly, did we? We have been here a while, yes, a bit longer than the ten minutes you allotted us, but…." He trailed off, peering closer at her. In a very different tone of voice, he stated, "You aren't bleeding any more."

"Oh, so it's stopped now, has it?" Lisbon asked sarcastically, getting tired of the whole charade. "Good."

"Somebody stitched you up," the Doctor continued slowly.

Lisbon snorted. "No kidding. Is that what you were doing?"

The Doctor swallowed. "I hadn't left yet, had I?" He blew out a breath. "_Brilliant_. I'd thought that that was the beginnings of an infection. I just didn't want to believe it."

Lisbon looked at Jane. "When did he get back here, thirty seconds before I came in?"

She couldn't read the look Jane gave her in response to that, and for some reason that bothered her. He had plenty of unreadable expressions, sure, but this wasn't one of the ones he usually wore, and she couldn't identify it. And she wasn't really sure whether that in itself unnerved her more than the response she received: "He's been here with me since we left the café."

All right, fine. There were two of them. She had to accept that. If she didn't, _she_ was probably the crazy one, not the Doctor.

But did they have to act so alike?

Forget it. If they were behind this, she would do everything in her power to make sure that, insanity plea or not, they got what they deserved.

"Well," the Doctor said, drawing her back from her thoughts, "the one _good_ thing about this infection in the wound is that it'll make my timeline malleable enough to withstand all these changes." He frowned. "Of course, if it goes on for too long, my timeline will get _too_ malleable, and there's no telling what I'll lose, the way things are liable to bend out of place or even snap off altogether if I don't watch it. Not that there's a lot that I can _do_ about it, since if I do lose something, I won't know, not if it's a clean break, though I will know if something just becomes bent out of shape…."

"Stop it," Lisbon ordered. "Now."

The Doctor looked at her, clearly startled. "What?"

"I'm sick and tired of your nonsense," she informed him sharply. "Wounds and bleeding and all that crap. I've put up with it long enough. I don't know what you're trying to pull, but it's not going to work. I won't have you interfering anymore. I don't care _who _you are."

"Or who I say I am," the Doctor supposed. "Now, I know you're angry, and you probably think you have every right to be, but have you stopped to consider for a moment that you might be interfering in _my_ work, and not the other way around?"

"What?" Lisbon looked incredulous for a moment and then shook her head. "Forget it. This is _our_ case."

"You were called in by Officer Waterer, correct?" the Doctor pressed. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "And he informed you of all the details, I imagine. But how could he know, when he didn't even properly examine the crime scene himself and can't even tell me who did? And have you had a chance to look into the pasts of the victims, Agent Lisbon? These people, this entire family, did not exist. Oh, but they did, of course they did, everyone remembers them, quite well. They can't _not_ exist. That's not possible. They were here, and that's that, right? But if that's so, where are their records? Gone. Without so much as a trace. I haven't been able to find anything out about them, so I highly doubt that you did. But isn't that just the teensiest bit odd? That they don't exist, outside of people's memories and this blood-splattered room?"

Lisbon turned to Jane again, who was being suspiciously quiet. "Please tell me this is some sort of hypnotism thing."

"Oh, it's all perfectly real," Jane replied easily. "No one we spoke with was hypnotized. And he's certainly not," Jane added, nodding at the Doctor.

"Not hypnotized," the Doctor agreed, "but that's not to say that everyone is remembering everything correctly."

"Oh?" She wasn't going to offer an opinion. Not yet. She'd wait until he started spouting nonsense at her again.

"Memories can be implanted," the Doctor said darkly, a clear indication of the fact that he wasn't at all happy with the idea—though Lisbon could think of no one who would be, if such a thing were truly possible. "And, if not entirely new, they can be falsified. I'm fairly certain that that's what's happened here. We can't trust anyone here to tell the truth because, even if it's the truth as they know it, we don't have any guarantee that it's right."

"And how did you come up with that conclusion?" Jane asked, looking interested.

"You were right. I was adding things up to form the wrong conclusion. But now that I've had a better look at this, it's beginning to make a bit of sense. Not much, mind. Not enough to bother trying to explain it to you lot yet. But the idea of what is happening here, and what already happened, is taking shape." He scraped a bit of blood off the coffee table with his finger and, to Lisbon's disgust, licked it. He looked thoughtful for a moment—a moment in which she was too shocked to comment on his completely inappropriate behaviour—and then, looking surprised himself, added, "This isn't even real blood."

"What is it, then?" Lisbon asked, crossing her arms. "Paint? Ketchup? Food colouring?" She would have been less surprised if he'd tried saying that it wasn't human blood, and she may have believed him. But what she was looking at was blood, all right. She'd seen enough of it to know.

"It's synthetic," the Doctor answered. He made a face. "Bit too much iron in this batch, though. Someone didn't know what they were doing."

"Right, like it's easy enough to get buckets of this stuff, whatever it is, to spread around someone's living room. Where's the family, then? Kidnapped? And how can you explain away the fact that Julia and Jenny saw them?"

The Doctor looked exasperated. "I _told_ you. Just because someone tells us the truth, it doesn't mean that that's what really happened. Something's been through here that's intent on covering up its tracks." He looked back at Jane. "I think you'll have a bit of trouble closing this case," he said. "Your victims don't exist. Your murderer doesn't exist. And whoever did this is clever. I'll be lucky to catch it."

"It?" Lisbon repeated, raising her eyebrows.

"It," the Doctor repeated firmly. "Because even if this doesn't make sense, not yet, I know enough to know that it's the sort of thing I deal with and not the sort of you thing _you_ deal with. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. So, yes. It."

"So how do you propose we continue our investigation then, Doctor, if this isn't even a real crime scene?" Lisbon quizzed sceptically.

"Oh, it would probably be best to do exactly what you're doing," the Doctor replied. "I don't know what we're dealing with. Until I do, it's best not to let anything know that we're on to it."

"You've been doing this for a long time," Jane commented, evidently noting the Doctor's manner and tone.

"Oh, yes," the Doctor agreed. He looked at Lisbon and winked. "For a sight longer than forty years."

* * *

"What are we supposed to do now?" Rigsby asked.

Cho glanced at the Doctor. "I don't know," he answered, "but I'm not babysitting again."

"Oi!" the Doctor squawked, indignant. "I do _not_ need a babysitter! _I'm _not the one with the tendency to wander off into danger. _That_ distinction belongs to the people who travel with me, the people who—" and here he broke off, a catch in his voice. When he found his voice again, he simply said, "People like you." He paused, then added, in a more cheerful tone, "I'm the Doctor, and you are?" He was looking at Rigsby and Van Pelt.

"Agents Wayne Rigsby and Grace Van Pelt," Cho answered shortly.

"Well, good to meet you, Agents Wayne Rigsby and Grace Van Pelt," the Doctor said, grinning as he shook their hands enthusiastically. "Of course, considering the circumstances, I may have not met you yet at all, but we'll see how things turn out." Without giving them a chance to question him, he continued, "We'd best track down Officer Waterer, I think, to get some answers, don't you agree?"

Van Pelt was staring at the Doctor. "You're…really…."

"Yes," the Doctor interrupted. "Yes, I am. To…both of your questions, I think, since, judging by the look on your face, you've run into me before I've run into you, and I must say it's hard not to get into a bit of a muddle when that happens, so I'll thank you not to say a word about before, because that's all yet to come for me and we'd best not spoil it. Of course, the way things are going, that may not happen, and it may never have happened at all to begin with, but I won't know that for certain until we get some answers."

"And you think Officer Waterer has your answers?" Cho asked.

"I think he's a really good place to start, yes," the Doctor replied.

"Why?"

"Because however much he's telling, it's not enough, and I might bring back a few memories now, if he sees me like this," the Doctor responded, gesturing down at his clothing. "So let's get to it, shall we?" He started to walk away, as if he expected everyone to follow him.

"We're driving," Rigsby called after him. "If you want a ride." He tossed the keys to Cho, who caught them and went to start the vehicle.

The Doctor looked back at them, then spun on his heels and started back. "Might as well," he said, climbing into the passenger seat. "I've no idea how much time we have. Could be days. Could be minutes. Could be none at all. So we might as well not waste a second of it, eh?" He grinned, but he didn't manage to convince any of them that he felt light-hearted in the slightest.

They found Officer Waterer still at the station. "I don't know how much more I can tell you," he started, looking up from his work to see Cho in the doorway.

"It doesn't have to seem relevant to be important," Cho reminded him. Rigsby and Van Pelt stepped forward and were introduced, and then Officer Waterer's gaze found the Doctor.

The Doctor just looked at him, waiting.

Officer Waterer's brow creased. "You…."

"Yes." The Doctor nodded, just once. "Me."

"But it…."

"It can. It was." The Doctor moved closer now, leaning down on the desk to look Officer Waterer directly in the eye. "I need you to tell me what happened. What do you remember?"

"But that was ten years ago, and you don't look…." Officer Waterer trailed off, shaking his head. "Why didn't I remember before?"

"It doesn't matter," the Doctor replied. "The point is that you can remember now. What happened there, that you remember?"

"But if you were there—"

"If he was where?" Rigsby asked, clearly not sure what to make of the conversation.

"At my house," Officer Waterer replied, sounding unsure himself. "New Year's Eve, 1999. The night Edith…." He broke off. "She had a heart attack. There was nothing we could do."

"The cracks," the Doctor prompted him, "in the floor. What do you remember about those?"

Officer Waterer gave him a quizzical look. "What cracks?"

"The ones in the living room floor," the Doctor answered, sounding impatient.

"There weren't any cracks," was the confused, yet certain, reply.

"Others saw them," the Doctor reminded him. "They just appeared, do you remember?"

"If the floor had been cracked," Officer Waterer pointed out, "those cracks would still be there. I never replaced the flooring, and neither did the Williams after they bought the house."

"So they aren't there now but they were there then," the Doctor concluded. "That's just my luck, isn't it?" He wasn't talking to Officer Waterer anymore; he wasn't talking to anyone but himself, pacing around the room as he was. "It _would_ be that sort. I'd hoped it wasn't. But it doesn't give us much time, not if the cracks are moving, following me."

Officer Waterer looked back at the others. "Why ask me about this, anyway? Isn't it painful enough to have to investigate more deaths there? I would have left town altogether, to get away from the memories, but I wasn't about to leave here on account of cowardice, not when I had my duties to fulfill, not when people needed me as much as I needed them. But when it was just me, I didn't need that big house. Someone else did. That's enough for me. It ought to be enough for you."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Officer Waterer," Van Pelt said sincerely.

"But you ought to understand," Rigsby added, jerking his thumb towards the Doctor, "that we aren't responsible for him." Not beyond Lisbon's orders, anyway.

Officer Waterer nodded wearily. "I know. But I don't really know why he's here, anyway. An independent investigation isn't called for. I didn't think I'd be able to get to the bottom of it without help, which is why I called you in, but I never asked for…." He shook his head. "I just want to get this behind me. I appreciate the help. The sooner we catch whoever did this, the better."

The Doctor stopped his mumbling and pacing then, spinning around to look at Officer Waterer. "Where's the key?" he demanded.

"What key?" Officer Waterer asked, taken aback.

"The key Lisbon has?" Van Pelt asked, sounding tentative.

"What?" The Doctor turned to look at her, distracted. Then, "Oh, no. Not the TARDIS key. The key to this." He waved an arm around him.

"The key to what?" Rigsby asked, raising an eyebrow.

"All of this," the Doctor answered. "This prison, this trap. Where's the key?"

"What are you talking about?" Officer Waterer asked. He shook his head. "I don't have time to play games, Dr. Smith."

"Oh, but this isn't a game," the Doctor countered. "This is far, far from just a simple little game, isn't it? If it _is_ a game, it's a war game, isn't it? No rules. No regulations. Except survival, and escape. Because that's what this was built for, wasn't it? To keep people in here, to keep them trapped, to keep them guessing, never letting them know until it's all too late?" His voice became harsher, but never louder. "It's not going to work," he said, softer than before, but no less harshly. "I won't let it. I'll figure it out."

"We should be going," Cho said, shooting Rigsby a pointed look. He got the hint and moved to stand by the Doctor, ready to secure him if necessary. "Sorry for taking up your time, Officer."

"I won't mind so long as we get to the bottom of this," Officer Waterer replied shortly. "But I haven't time to waste, and neither do you."

"We're doing everything we can," Van Pelt assured him as they left his office. "We'll keep you informed.

"I wasn't through questioning him," the Doctor groused, though he moved along when Rigsby prodded him forward.

"Your questioning wasn't relevant," Cho countered.

"That's what you think," the Doctor muttered. But he started off ahead of them again, as if he were taking charge. "We'll go catch up with Lisbon, then, and the rest of them," he said. "Then we can start to sort this."

"Sort what, exactly?" Rigsby murmured to Van Pelt.

She shrugged in response. "I don't know. I could ask. He might answer if we ask a direct question."

"Wouldn't bet on it, not if he's like the one we were questioning," Rigsby replied under his breath.

The Doctor reached the door and threw it open, but stopped short just as Van Pelt caught up to him, holding out an arm to block her path before she, or anyone else, could get past him. "Wait," he cautioned.

"What is it?" Van Pelt asked, craning her neck to look around him.

The Doctor pointed to the ground ahead of them. It looked…fractured, thin cracks spreading across sidewalk cement and street alike. But that didn't make any sense; it had been perfectly fine earlier. They all knew it had been. Or perhaps it hadn't been, after all, and they'd just assumed it had, because they'd never gotten a proper look at it before. They only noticed it now because the Doctor was pointing it out.

"Don't step on the cracks," the Doctor warned them.

"Why?" Rigsby asked, grinning. "Because we'll break our mother's back?"

The Doctor shook his head. "I don't know what will happen, but I can't guarantee that it will be good, so I'd rather not find out."

Rigsby looked surprised, as if he had been expecting the Doctor to be joking about the entire thing. "But what can happen? It's just a crack. It's not going to kill you."

"We have more important things to be doing than worrying about cracks," Cho said, brushing past the Doctor. "Come on."

"Watch your step!" the Doctor cried. To his relief, Cho missed the first of the cracks, and the next, and the next. Breathing easier, he motioned for Rigsby and Van Pelt to follow him, picking a safe path through the maze of lines.

And then the heel of Cho's right foot came down on a crack.

And then he was gone.

"What the hell?" Rigsby asked, confused, looking up to realize that they were alone.

"What just happened?" Van Pelt asked warily, bewildered, looking between the Doctor and the place where she had last seen Cho.

The Doctor, who had seen precisely what had happened, swallowed, and then his expression hardened. "Don't step on the cracks," he repeated grimly, and continued on.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I was reminded that I had two minutes to Belgium and that I'd better hurry, so I did my best to get this chapter finished quickly (well, more quickly than usual), so here you are!

* * *

"Someone's coming," the Doctor commented, turning his head towards the front door. It opened a few seconds later, revealing Rigsby, Van Pelt, and…his other self, his younger self, his other younger self who wasn't doing things the way _he _had done things.

Yet a younger other self who knew, from the look on his face, considerably more than he did.

"Where's Cho?" Lisbon asked when he didn't come through the door.

"Not coming," the Doctor's younger self replied. "Sorry."

"Rigsby?" Lisbon asked, turning to someone she evidently considered more reliable than him. "Van Pelt?"

Rigsby shook his head, and Van Pelt avoided Lisbon's gaze.

The Doctor did not see this as a good sign.

That shouldn't be particularly surprising, really, considering what his other self was wearing. He never had any good luck when he wore that suit. But, that aside, there was the more pressing matter of the fact that his other self had chosen to confront him, something he most definitely had never done, and at the source of the wound no less.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "It'll get infected." He waved an arm around him, knowing that his other self would know he meant the wound.

"It already is," came the reply, as he had expected, because he _had_ known that it was infected, though the infection hadn't advanced enough to worry him when he'd first noticed it. _Now_, however…. "But you knew that, didn't you?" his other self continued. "Time's folding back, being rewritten. The wound is oozing, and that's probably the only reason you're still around, isn't it, because of the malleability it gives your timeline? Because you oughtn't to be otherwise, since this never happened the first time, did it? Didn't think so. Because…." He broke off for a moment, his sure voice faltering. "It's my fault. I don't like to admit that, but it is. I was tricked into going back, to 1999, and things got a bit…out of hand. This wound is _my _fault. In more ways than one, because it ripped open something that had never healed properly in the first place. Look at how bad it's getting now, how bad it's gotten already. What does that tell you?"

The Doctor swallowed. "Reapers," he managed.

His other self nodded. "But they aren't here, are they? They didn't turn up. Curious, isn't it? They wouldn't let something this infected fester. But nothing can stop them forever. You might be able to keep them at bay long enough to fix up whatever you're doing so that they lose interest, or if you're _very_ lucky, you can divert their attention for a time, but when a wound is this infected, they'll come to sterilize it. If they didn't turn up here, then clearly this isn't a problem of theirs, and since it _should _be, then it means that we aren't where I thought we were or where you thought we were—or where _any_one thought we were, really. But that's not all. There're cracks outside; have you seen them? You know what that means."

Oh. Yes, yes he _did_ know what that meant. And he didn't like it one bit, even if it did explain everything, all those things that didn't add up. "We're caught in a trap."

"That we are," his other self agreed. He glanced at the others, who were staring at them. "You explain it. I'll see if I can find out how extensive the trap is."

The Doctor nodded, and his younger self nipped out of the room again, heading, he assumed, for the stairs. He turned back to the others, half expecting the questions to start before he opened his mouth.

They did.

"What the hell do you mean by trap?" Lisbon demanded. "And where's Cho?"

The Doctor glanced at Rigsby and Van Pelt. "What did happen to him, anyway?" he asked, feeling he knew the answer but really, _really_ hoping that he was wrong.

"He stepped on a crack," Van Pelt answered, her voice barely a whisper.

"So where is he?" Lisbon pressed.

The Doctor closed his eyes. "Not coming," he answered, though he knew that wasn't really an answer at all.

"Who would have set this trap?" Jane asked, as if sensing that the Doctor wanted the subject changed.

"I don't know if it's a matter of _who_ or even _what_, not anymore." The Doctor opened his eyes, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "This…would have been set up a long time ago. It's probably one of many. It…." He trailed off. It wasn't that he was at a loss for words. It was that he had too many to use, and he wasn't sure which ones were best.

"Better start from the beginning, then," Jane said, almost looking as if he were enjoying himself, like a child anticipating story time.

The Doctor sighed, and then began, "We're in a trap. Well, I'm in a trap. For all I know, you lot are just _products_ of the trap. But," he amended, catching sight of their faces, "we'll say, for the moment, that you aren't. Which is why I'm explaining this to you. Because you need to know. Just in case." He stopped for a moment. Their faces were still masks of confusion. He'd have to go a bit more slowly. They still might not understand it, but perhaps they would grasp the gravity of the situation, the things that he was facing because of it, the things they all might be facing, if they were caught here with him.

"It's a time trap," he said, starting again. "Well, one of them. It takes reality and twists it out of shape, and you play your part in it, going along as if everything were real, and by the time you've discovered something's wrong, it's too late; you're all caught up in it." He hesitated. "You do realize," he continued, more slowly, "that because it fabricates what it needs, I can't tell who's simply caught here in the trap with me and who's entirely fiction." He pulled a face. "It's worse than dreaming, and that's bad enough, because if I misjudge here, I could be helping it and playing further into the trap, but if I don't help people here anyhow, anyone who's just caught up in it with me is going to suffer. They're liable never to get out. Granted, I'm not sure if they'd _realize_ that, but…." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I can't condemn people to being stuck in here for the rest of their lives."

"He's telling the truth, isn't he?" Van Pelt whispered, looking over at Jane.

"The truth as he knows it," Jane agreed.

"But how can any of this even be real?" Rigsby asked. "It's not possible."

"It is for me," the Doctor cut in. "All of it is. Every single bit."

Lisbon groaned. "Okay, I have a feeling that this isn't going to make any sense, but you might as well get on with it. So this is some sort of time trap, you say. But what's that even mean? Do you even know?"

"It…." The Doctor stopped. He couldn't answer her question without giving her a bit of history. And that history, well, it was painful. But it had to be remembered, beyond the tales and myths of other races. It had to be remembered by him, because he'd been there, and he knew what had happened. But perhaps if he explained it quickly enough, they wouldn't ask too many questions. He could only hope. If nothing else, it would save on time, time that was becoming increasingly precious.

Precious, yet powerful enough to trap him. Him, and possibly them, if they were real and not fabrications. It was dreadfully hard to tell the difference between those who were real and those who were not. If the Williams hadn't been real, who else in this town wasn't? Did this town even _exist_? He'd never thought to look. He hadn't thought it important.

He'd walked straight into the trap.

"This isn't the first time I've heard of this sort of thing," the Doctor told them, starting again. "But, for the most part, they weren't widespread, because, well, they aren't always that effective. My people…well, they frowned on this. They didn't like to interfere, not unless they were threatened. There would only be the odd few who would. Me being one of the more prominent ones. Well, the prominent one. Usually. Though I had my reasons, and I still do, and they knew it. They just didn't agree, that's all.

"But these time traps, they…. They weren't designed by my people, to catch the few of us who went against the grain so they could talk some sense into us. Not that my own people didn't have a few tricks up their sleeves when it came to that sort of thing, but these traps were designed by our enemies, at a very specific time, to catch us. And the more they caught, well, the less they'd have to fight. Because…." The Doctor's voice faltered for a moment. "We were at war," he finished softly. "And those of us who'd been out travelling, who'd defied our people earlier…. We were valuable, even if they didn't admit it to us, because we knew, from our own experiences, what sort of things were out there. We weren't content with second-hand knowledge; we needed to learn things for ourselves.

"And we did, the few of us that there were. For most, it was a good thing, at least in my opinion. For others, it fed something that…wasn't quite so good. But that doesn't matter, not really. You see, these traps, they were built to catch us, the few of us who'd rather interfere than observe. But this one, in particular, considering its placement, well, I think it was, specifically…."

"Intended for you?" Jane surmised.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes. It's on Earth, for one, around a wound _I_ accidentally created. Because that wound in time is real. That's what's powering this entire thing. If everything else is fabricated, that isn't." He didn't bother adding that his role in the Time War would have made him a prime target. And it would have been with good reason; if they'd caught him earlier, things may have ended differently.

Very differently.

Trouble was, he had some doubts as to whether _different_ equated to _better_.

Then again, that doubt was the only consolation he had.

"Okay," Lisbon said, "I'll pretend everything you just said isn't completely nuts and go along with you for the moment." She didn't need to add her reason why; they all knew it, especially the Doctor, who'd experienced the same fear for his companions, his friends, many times over. "If this is a trap, how the hell do we get out of it?"

The Doctor was quiet for a moment. "I don't know," he admitted. "I've never been caught in one like this before." He paused. "But I'll get out. I'm not sure how, but I will." He looked at them, adding, "I always do, after all."

"No matter the cost?" Jane asked lightly, as if he assumed those would be the Doctor's next words.

The Doctor started, and then his face blanched. "Oh. _Oh_. Oh, no, no, nononononono!" And then he started hissing things under his breath, weighing possibilities against probabilities, careful not to discard anything quite yet, but not ready to admit that he wasn't really sure what they ought to do next.

Jane raised his eyebrows at Lisbon, who looked like she had just understood the Doctor's reaction. "Julia McDonald," she informed Jane quietly, "said something like that. She said to make sure it was worth the cost."

"And you think this is what she meant?"

Lisbon shook her head. "I don't know. I just don't know. I don't understand anything anymore. But if it is, then I can't think of how that would be a good thing."

* * *

The Doctor took the stairs two at a time, hoping he'd get a better view of the town from up above, trying to see the extent of the time trap. He trusted his other self to explain things to the CBI people, but he had to wonder when, exactly, he'd gotten his future off track. He wasn't sure that it was his fault, really. Perhaps his other self was the one who had done something wrong. Not that it would matter all that much anymore. Malleable timelines and all that; events could slide around and knowledge could be exchanged, to a point, and they'd be none the worse for the wear. Things would blend together, and a few little differences here and there wouldn't matter.

Unless they couldn't get out of the trap before it was too late.

Trouble was, he didn't know how extensive the trap was.

And he wasn't sure that that was something he could find out.

There were different sorts of traps, after all. Most of them were the same before they were sprung—only a small part of reality was twisted within the initial confines of the trap, a piece of reality so inconspicuous that you never knew it was twisted at all. But if he was in one of those expanding dimension traps, he could go anywhere and never escape it. Then there were the ones with only the _illusion_ of expansion. Very few had set, definitive boundaries once the traps were sprung. So if he couldn't find out the precise dimensions of how big the trap was _now_, he _could_ find out how big it was, initially, and that would tell him something. Not a lot, but something.

He went into one of the bedrooms upstairs—the master bedroom, from the looks of it—and pulled the blinds and threw open the window, clambering out onto the window sill. He was facing east. It was darker on this side of the house now, though not much, because the sun wasn't terribly low yet, but he could tell there was a definite difference.

It showed that there was still a passage of time.

Reality was cracking, but time was still passing.

Except, that didn't align with the readings he'd gotten back in 1999. Frowning, the Doctor waved the sonic screwdriver around, seeing if he'd get anything different. Perhaps if he wasn't indoors….

No. It was just a clever manipulation, that impression that time was passing. Here, in reality, or whatever was passing for reality, it was still…stale. Trapped, like him, unable to get out. Sculpted into a prison to contain him, acting as a relic of a time long past that's forever locked away. Something that also, had it been active, would have been locked away.

He knew others had been. Traps like these were always built around something natural to draw the curious or well-meaning in, like him. Well, something natural or something curiously unnatural, but either way, it was something separate from the trap itself. That was the beauty of it, and the reason, he suspected, it had often worked. He knew what had caused the wound, yes, but he wasn't entirely sure what had activated it and, by extension, the trap.

Unless it was him.

The Doctor swallowed. It wasn't unheard of, having a trap activate itself the moment its prey came into range. Slowly, he changed the settings on the sonic screwdriver, looking for the traces the TARDIS had picked up of the wound—the reason he'd come here in the first place, he now knew. Except, he wasn't looking for them _now_. He was looking for the intertemporal transmission of the echo—the reverberation—that she'd picked up, the one that had drawn her here and him into the trap with her.

Very faintly, he found it.

That settled it, then. This entire thing was his fault.

If he'd never come, none of this would ever have happened.

Granted, it was a bit hard to say what _had_ happened. Actually happened, that is. Not whatever had appeared to happen within the confines of the trap. It wasn't just the fabricated murders or any of that; he genuinely didn't know how long he'd been in here. He doubted it had been the greater part of a day, as it appeared to be, but he had no idea whether he'd been in here for hours or days—or longer. Likewise, he had no idea how large the actual space of the trap _was_. He could be running through the same room, back and forth and all around it, for all he knew. He could never have left anywhere. Or it could be set up on a larger scale, encompassing the entire town. He figured that was more likely, though there was no way of telling just by looking; wherever he went, the cracks would follow, reminding him that he was in a trap, taunting him that no matter where he looked for answers, he wouldn't find them.

Which meant he was better off just sorting it out here, especially since others could still wander into the trap and never notice—at least, not until their world started to crack apart. Literally.

The Doctor fiddled with the settings on the sonic screwdriver again. In theory, he ought to be able to find the source of the signal and extrapolate the dimensions of the trap once he was at its origin. When he found out the dimensions, he'd have an idea of the power of the trap, and then he'd know whether he was best to try to find a direct approach to shut it down or a sneaky approach to destroy it by slipping through its defences.

It would be tricky, either way. These traps were designed to contain people like him. It ought to be anticipating his actions, even before he planned them out. But no matter; he was clever. With a bit of help, he'd be out of here in no time.

He hoped.

* * *

"I'm glad this town isn't any bigger than it is," Rigsby muttered. "I'm not going to like walking it five times over."

Lisbon raised her eyebrows at him. "You came here in a car. Why not use it?"

"Cho had the keys," Van Pelt answered quietly.

"He had the keys for ours, too," Lisbon pointed out. "So why give him yours?"

"He knew where he was going," Rigsby said, sounded defensive. "I didn't."

"There's no use quarrelling about it," the Doctor said, looking up at them from his seat on the floor. Rigsby, for one, wasn't entirely sure what he was doing. He had some device that he'd called a sonic screwdriver, of all things, in his hand and had been waving that around until quite recently, when he'd focussed it on a spot on the hardwood floor. "You couldn't drive now anyway. Look at the street; it's not safe. Everything's on foot from here."

"Why hasn't anyone else noticed?" Jane asked, turning away from the window.

"They've probably been programmed not to look," the Doctor replied. "And those who aren't part of the trap, wholly or partially, but are just caught up in it, well, they wouldn't know the danger, would they? Or perhaps they just think it's unsafe anyhow, and are staying indoors. But whether or not they notice the cracks doesn't concern me at the moment. Look here," he said, pointing to the floor in front of him. "This is where you dropped the rock, right?"

Jane glanced at it and nodded. "And what's so delightfully important about that?"

"There aren't any readings for this specific spot. None at all." The Doctor turned on his sonic screwdriver, presumably to demonstrate this, but Rigsby couldn't tell the difference. For all he knew, the Doctor was making the entire thing up.

"Meaning?" Jane prompted.

"Well, it could mean half a dozen different things," the Doctor said. "It could have fallen off the grid, be a point of origin, be a transdimensional, intertemporal spatial equivalent of a, well, let's call it a black hole, or it could be a…a…." The Doctor trailed off, frowning. "Did I say half a dozen? I meant half a half dozen. A quarter dozen."

Rigsby, determined to try to make sense of this, started, "And if it's this 'black hole' thing, then—"

"Oh, I don't expect it is," the Doctor interrupted. He grinned. "I just sort of made that up."

"Then why are you so worried about it?" Jane asked.

The Doctor's grin faded slightly. "Worried?" he repeated. "I don't look worried, do I? I shouldn't."

Jane moved over to peer more closely at the spot the Doctor had pointed out. "So it's perfectly safe, then?" he asked, reaching out to touch it.

The Doctor grabbed his arm with surprising strength, pushing him away. "All right," he allowed. "I may be just the _teensiest_ bit worried."

"Why?" Lisbon demanded. Rigsby could tell from her tone that if she didn't think it would be important, she would have been happier not to ask.

"_Well_," the Doctor started, drawing the word out, "it _may_ just so happen to be a sort of indication that the trap is, just possibly, going to, well…collapse."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Rigsby asked, thinking that if it collapsed, they'd at least be able to get out.

The Doctor slowly shook his head. "Not if we're still inside when it happens."

"Why? What happens then?" Van Pelt asked, worry creeping into her voice.

The Doctor glanced at Jane for a moment, and then sighed. "We'll be locked out of time." He hesitated, then added, "And without a path back, we'll be stuck. I won't be able to do anything."

"You aren't doing anything now," Lisbon pointed out, "except making up all this nonsense about time."

The Doctor, clearly ignoring her last statement, replied, "Of course I'm doing something right now. Upstairs, my other self is trying to find the origin and dimensions of the trap. Me, I'm trying to track down in the instigator, the one who activated it. I mean, yes, if you think about it like a computer, some piece of software is responsible for that. So what I'm doing is looking for that software, so that I can track it down and question it and maybe figure out how to override it altogether."

"You can question a piece of software?" Rigsby asked incredulously.

The Doctor gave him a look that told him, quite plainly, that the man figured he should have thought about what had been said prior to commenting on it. "It'll be disguised as a person," he explained. "So far, I haven't been able to track it down. For all I know, it could be any one of you."

"But wouldn't we know it if it was any of us?" Van Pelt asked slowly.

"Oh, whoever it is knows, yes, and they're not going to be telling me, at least not until they come to gloat. But, yes, it _could_ very easily be any of you. The Williams existed, after all, until we did some digging and discovered otherwise. But the townspeople here knew them as well as they know each other—about as well as you lot know yourselves, I'd wager. But when you can't trust your memories, who's to say how much of what you think is true actually is?"

For a moment, no one answered. No one could. Then Jane asked, "Are the walls still bleeding?"

The Doctor looked surprised by the question. "Of course not. Do you think I'd let them in here if they were?" He gestured at Van Pelt and Rigsby. He'd given Lisbon that extra little bit of protection when he'd stitched her up, and he expected that his other self had, too. Not that it mattered, seeing as the bleeding had stopped before she'd turned up.

"So in the time between my coming here with you and them showing up, it stopped?"

"It stopped the moment you dropped that rock," the Doctor replied. "The moment the cracks started, though I didn't know that at the time, because they hadn't travelled through yet."

"But I thought you said that it was the wound that was bleeding."

"It was," the Doctor answered.

"Then why would it stop when this time trap started to crack? You told us they weren't connected. You said the trap was just built around the wound."

"It was," the Doctor repeated. "That those two things should coincide just happens to be a very curious coincidence."

Jane smirked. "You don't believe that."

"No," the Doctor admitted, "but as far as being caught in a trap goes, it's been suspiciously helpful to me. Letting me know it's a trap, for one. It could very easily have waited much longer before allowing things to add up."

Lisbon was rubbing her temples, apparently abandoning any hope of seeing sense or sanity in the situation. "Just tell me this, all right? If we were called in to investigate the murders of victims who never existed outside of this trap of yours, how are we supposed to resolve this case? What sort of report am I going to have to write?"

The Doctor made a face. "Oh, I never bother with paperwork," he said. Lisbon shot him a look that Rigsby had received many a time, and he added, "You may not have to worry about it all. If you actually exist, that is. Because if we can get out of this trap, I'll still have to sort this wound out. Now, I'm making the infection work in my favour. There's no reason it can't work in yours, too. If we finish this up quickly enough, I'll do a bit of tweaking and put you right back in Sacramento to continue doing whatever you were doing as if no one had ever heard about this case, which by that time wouldn't ever have existed in the first place."

Lisbon stared at him for a moment. Then she asked, "And what about Cho?"

The Doctor didn't answer her, suddenly fascinated by the settings on his sonic screwdriver.

"Doctor," she growled, dropping the 'Smith' that she had often still insisted on calling him, "_what about Cho_?"

Without meeting her gaze, the Doctor answered, softly, "I don't know."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Just to clarify things, the third section takes place before the end of the second section. That'll be made more evident in the next chapter.

* * *

Agent Teresa Lisbon had just about had enough. She could close her eyes and pretend that this was all some sort of crazy dream. It was a nice thought. Better than the rather disturbing thought that Jane had somehow managed to hypnotize her, since she'd learned enough about that now not to doubt what people could be made to believe. Not that she thought he would pull something like this. Well, not without reason, at any rate, and he'd have to have a pretty good reason to pull something like this, and he definitely didn't have it.

Though perhaps she _was_ better to believe that. It was much better to entertain that idea than to believe, just for one second, that any of this was real.

Especially since, if she'd been following anything the Doctor had been saying, this wasn't real anyway.

Or had that been that this _was_ real, but this _reality_ wasn't?

Lisbon winced. Why couldn't things just make sense?

"I'm going to go question Julia again," the Doctor announced. "If she's been used as a mouthpiece once, she might be used as one again."

Lisbon wrinkled her brow, trying to sort things out. "Again?" she repeated. "I thought that was the other one. The one who's upstairs."

"Oh, yes," the Doctor said. "Him, too. It's just me, after all." He paused, but it wasn't long enough for her to try to argue his logic. "Did you want to come?"

It was far easier to ignore most of what the Doctor was saying and stick to the basics. The other things…could be dealt with in time. No point in biting off more than she could chew. "Is this going to be relevant to the case?"

The Doctor gave her a look of which she was rarely on the receiving end, one that said, quite plainly, that he thought she was being quite slow. "Lisbon," he began slowly, as if he were speaking to a child and choosing his words with great care, "you don't, exactly, have a case."

"If I have evidence that a crime has been committed," Lisbon retorted, "then I _do_ have a case."

The Doctor looked a bit taken aback at that, and he opened his mouth to say something in reply, but Rigsby cut him off. "If you're going to question this Julia," he asked, "is there any chance that you'll find out what happened to Cho?"

"Possibly," the Doctor responded after a moment's hesitation.

"Then I'll go with you," he announced.

"You'll watch your step?" the Doctor asked, looking doubtful.

"I want to know what happened to my friend," he replied. "But I won't let my concern cloud my judgement. I'll be careful."

"All right," the Doctor said, "but I'm only taking one person with me, so the rest of you ought to stay here. Don't move. This is, essentially, like the eye of the storm. You'll be safest here. It ought to crack last."

"Ought to?" Van Pelt asked. She'd been growing more and more concerned as things went on, particularly after Rigsby had spoken up, and Lisbon had a feeling that she knew why. But she wasn't supposed to, so she let it be, and she ignored it.

"There aren't any guarantees," the Doctor replied gently.

Things were happening too quickly. How was she supposed to make sense of it all? For that matter, how was she supposed to make sense of _any_ of it? Was she even supposed to believe it? Van Pelt and Rigsby certainly did, from the looks on their faces, but Jane…. She couldn't really tell. If she knew he doubted this entire thing, she'd feel a lot safer.

But she couldn't really feel safe at all until she knew what had happened to Cho.

"Go," Lisbon said, looking at Rigsby, though she couldn't remember if he'd actually asked her permission or not. "Find out what you can, but just…be careful."

"And when do you talk to Julia," Jane added, "ask her what her favourite colour is."

Rigsby looked a bit confused. "Why?"

"To get her comfortable," Jane replied. Lisbon couldn't tell from his tone whether or not that was the truth, but she saw the look on the Doctor's face, and she doubted that it was. He looked a bit startled, and she wondered if Jane was on to something that she ought to know about, and if he was, whether or not the Doctor had just figured it out.

When they were gone, Lisbon turned to Jane. "What are you really after?" she asked.

Jane looked innocent. Or as much as he could look innocent, at any rate. "What do you mean?"

"With the question," Lisbon clarified, even though she knew full well that Jane knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Talking about something simple will get her comfortable," Jane reminded her.

"Jane, please," Van Pelt said, closing her eyes and looking, for a moment, exactly how Lisbon felt. "If you know what's going on, don't put us through this."

Jane was quiet for a moment. Then he admitted, "I don't know what's going on, Grace. Not precisely, not yet. I'm just trying to work it out."

"And how is asking a little girl what her favourite colour is relevant to any of this?" Lisbon asked, clearly dubious.

Jane shrugged. "Just checking something."

"Checking what?"

"Just something."

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "Oh, you're being really helpful. You know that, right?"

Jane grinned at her. "I do try," he said.

She could have slapped him. Or slugged him. That might have made her feel better.

Unfortunately, she'd be better off if she left him in one piece, and probably even more so if she stuck with him for the time being. "Van Pelt, stay here with the Doctor," Lisbon said. "I'm going to question Officer Waterer and if Jane has anything he wants to check, he can come along."

Van Pelt looked a bit uncomfortable about the idea. "I thought—"

"I want answers," Lisbon interrupted. "And right now, he seems to be the best place to get them."

"But you've already talked to him," Jane pointed out.

Lisbon glared at him. "I know. But if I'm even going to pretend for one second that anything the Doctor says is true, then I want to find out how he can sell his house to a family that doesn't exist."

She hadn't really expected Jane's response, but she supposed she should have. "Perhaps he doesn't exist, either."

"He has to," Van Pelt put in. "When we were questioning him, and the Doctor was trying to get us to come here, he said that Officer Waterer was the one who called in a favour with the CBI."

Jane looked interested at that. "The Doctor wanted you to come to Bluewater? Why?"

"He said he needed us to create a distraction," Van Pelt answered. "But I can't see how that's relevant now. It clearly didn't work."

"Or perhaps it did," Jane mused. "Just not in the way he expected it to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lisbon asked.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Jane said, waving the matter off. "But if we're going, we'd better go now, before it gets too late."

Lisbon turned back to Van Pelt, saying, "If Rigsby and the Doctor get back before we do, give me a call. I want to know what's happening as soon as possible."

Van Pelt opened her mouth to say something, but swallowed back her words and nodded. "Sure thing, boss."

"We'll be fine," Lisbon assured her, reading the look on her face. "Just stay here and wait for us. If the Doctor comes down and has something he needs to tell us, phone, but don't leave, all right?"

"All right," Van Pelt agreed quietly.

Breathing a bit easier, Lisbon looked at Jane, saying, "Let's go."

* * *

"Mr. and Mrs. McDonald?" the Doctor said when the door opened. "I've a few more questions I'd like to ask Julia." And without waiting for their assent, he charged in, Rigsby following slightly behind, looking apologetic.

"You could have waited until they let you in," Rigsby pointed out as the Doctor started taking the stairs two at a time.

"I don't see any point in being nice to someone who isn't real when the world we're trapped in is ending," the Doctor replied, turning around the railing at the top of the stairs and heading to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Rigsby caught up to him when he made it there. "Do you really think Julia will be able to tell us anything?"

"We'll find out, won't we?" the Doctor answered grimly. Without bothering to knock, he went in.

"You stopped the bleeding," Julia said softly when she saw him, "just like you promised."

"Yes, I did, didn't I?" the Doctor answered. "But I paid the price." He did not sound happy. But neither did he sound angry, and anyone who listened carefully would know that he wasn't even frustrated, not really. He'd already accepted what had happened; now, he was working on a way to fix it.

"Not all of it," Julia informed him simply.

"What?" the Doctor asked.

"You haven't paid all of it," Julia repeated. "Not yet. It costs so much to get so little, and sometimes the price isn't worth paying. But now that you've started, you can't stop."

"You mean Cho?" Rigsby asked, sounding alarmed.

Julia turned her gaze to him. "And everyone else," she answered.

"Everyone else?" the Doctor repeated. "What do you mean by 'everyone else'?"

"Everyone who's trapped, like you," Julia responded carefully, "will be lost."

"And everyone who's fiction, like you, will remain?" the Doctor shot back.

"You mean she's not real?" Rigsby asked, still trying to work everything out.

"I'm a memory," Julia replied. "I'm an animated memory. I'm just disguised, cloaked as a human, giving off the readings that are expected. But if the Doctor had looked, he would have known I wasn't, and he couldn't know then, not yet; it wasn't time. I had to ask him not to look, and he didn't. He respected my wishes. So I'm respecting his; I'm telling the truth."

"And your parents?" the Doctor prompted.

"Fictions," came the response, confirming the Doctor's guess. There was a pause, then, "But not everyone you've met is a fiction, fabricated by this trap. Some of the townspeople are real. But they don't know what the rest of us knew, once we were woken. No knowledge was activated in them, changing them from people into pawns. They're just unwitting actors, and they'll all be lost, if they're lucky."

"How are they lucky if they're lost?" Rigsby asked incredulously.

Julia's gaze flicked to him for a moment. "They just are," she said. "I don't know why. I was never told. Perhaps it is because they escape."

"Death isn't an escape," Rigsby replied sharply, likely thinking he'd seen quite enough of it to know.

"Don't mind her. She's just guessing. They take precautions with sentient programming," the Doctor explained. But before Rigsby could ask, he'd turned back to Julia, saying, "If you're a memory, whose memory are you?"

"I don't know," Julia answered. "That's asking who created me, and from what template, if any. I don't know any of that. I just know that I was happy, back when I was just a girl, before I was activated and before the bleeding stripped me of myself."

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said.

"So am I," Julia replied, "but being sorry doesn't help. It doesn't change things." She hesitated for a moment. "Now that the bleeding's stopped, I'm not switching back and forth between who I was and who I am. So I know a few more things now, things that were hidden to me before. And I can't help you, Doctor. Not really. I can only warn you. This trap is collapsing, closing up on itself. You don't have as much time as you'd like, so you don't have as much time as you need."

"Why are you helping?" the Doctor asked slowly.

"Because you helped me," Julia responded. "Or rather, you tried to."

"And how do I know this isn't just part of your programming?"

"You can't."

The Doctor frowned. "That's not fair," he complained—only realizing, once he'd said it, that he was voicing something he had often reminded his companions of, at one time or another.

He waited for the expected rebuke, but it didn't come.

"The cracks are spreading," Julia said, quite seriously. She turned back to Rigsby then, adding, "You'll find them underfoot, even when you're watching for them, and then you'll be lost."

Rigsby started at that, and tried to stutter out a response. "But—"

Julia, ignoring him, looked at the Doctor, quickly saying, "They've found me now. I'll be disabled, and things will be rewritten. I expect you'll feel that, even in here. But don't trust everything you feel. You can't trust your instincts. They'll get you killed. Or at least keep you trapped here. If not forever, then long enough for the infection to take hold and travel through your timeline and begin the fragmenta—"

"Aren't you going to start looking?" Rigsby asked.

The Doctor blinked, trying to clear away the sudden spinning in his head. "Look for what?" he asked carefully.

"You said we were coming here to look for something," Rigsby reminded him.

"Did I now?" the Doctor asked, momentarily closing his eyes.

"Why else would we be coming to an old house?"

The Doctor took a deep breath. Time had folded back on itself and the past was being rewritten, and now Rigsby not only had no memory of Julia, but also no reason to ask her about her favourite colour, as Jane had requested. The Doctor sincerely hoped that, if that question really had had relevance, it wasn't significant enough to change things now that it could never be asked. Perhaps it was Jane's way of getting answers. If that were the case, the Doctor had gotten a fair few anyhow. Opening his eyes, he said, "Right. Answers. That's what I was looking for. And I think I've found them."

"What's this telling you?" Rigsby asked, waving an arm around at the drab, dusty room.

"That things are progressing a bit faster than I'd hoped," the Doctor replied.

"You can tell that just by looking?" Rigsby looked torn between being impressed and being incredulous.

"Well, it's a bit more than looking," the Doctor admitted, but he didn't bother elaborating. He didn't feeling like elaborating right now. He'd just witnessed what was, essentially, a death. Julia had been right, that first time he'd met her, when she'd been torn between two different natures. He couldn't help her, and she was lost. He'd feared, vaguely, that what she'd said might come true. And now it had.

"Keep close," the Doctor ordered, glancing over his shoulder at Rigsby as he left Julia's room—or at least what used to be her room.

"Where are we off to now?" Rigsby asked.

"Back," the Doctor replied shortly.

"But we never found anything out about Cho," protested Rigsby. "When we left, you said we would. That's what I came to find out."

The Doctor glanced out at the fractured street and sighed. "I'm sorry, but it's too dangerous for you now."

"I'm watching where I'm going," Rigsby muttered. "That's what you required, isn't it?"

"Requirements change," the Doctor said softly. He heard Rigsby snort behind him, and started to carefully pick his way ahead. "All right. I know you want answers. But I don't know them all, not this time—or at least, not yet. All I've learned is that Cho is lost, and the opinion of the teller, though I'm not inclined to share it, is that the lucky are lost. I don't know what happened. I don't know if I can find out. I just have my suspicions, and they're not good ones."

"Have you had any good suspicions from the start of this all?"

It was more of a complaint than a question, the Doctor knew. And even though it didn't need an answer, he responded anyway, with a plain, simple, painful, "No."

Rigsby didn't say anything else, but the Doctor could hear him coming along behind, and he felt that, perhaps, he ought to explain a bit more. "I'm going to see," he started, "if I can find out who's the prison warden here. When I track him down, I might be able to get some answers out of him. If I can't work out a way to get out myself, I'll do my best to keep you safe, and I'll find out what happened to your friend. But whoever set this up planned for me to be caught, me specifically, and that's never a good thing. I'm not precisely sure what the reason why is—I've done so many things in all my years, and more often than not someone's not happy about it. But the reason doesn't matter, not now that I'm caught. I just need to get you out of it, because if you're not part of it, then I'm responsible for you. You were probably drawn in before everything settled and the trap was sprung. All it takes is one little thread to tie you to it. If I had to guess, I'd say that it's nothing more than appearances, not really. To remain disguised, the trap had to invoke normal reactions, and you were involved to keep up its charade." He paused before adding, "But I promise you, no matter what happens, I'll get you out of here, each and every one of you. You'll be safe."

He hadn't said much that he hadn't already told them, the Doctor knew, but he'd still expected Rigsby to respond. When he didn't, the Doctor began to get a very bad feeling, and he looked behind him.

He was alone.

It wasn't that his promise had fallen on deaf ears; there had simply been no one around to hear it.

Agent Wayne Rigsby had been watching his step. He'd been careful, as promised. The Doctor had no doubt about that. But the cracks were spreading, as Julia had told him, and one had, likely as not, opened up underfoot, and Rigsby had been lost in the blink of an eye.

He ought to have paid more attention. He wasn't sure what he could have done; he may not have been able to do anything. But he would have been able to try.

He'd thought he'd know if something else happened to someone. He'd thought he'd feel it, the moment they were lost from this broken reality. But Julia had been right again, it seemed. He couldn't trust his instincts. The trap was dampening them in an effort to keep him caught.

He would have felt much better if it hadn't been working.

* * *

Grace Van Pelt wasn't sure, anymore, what was real and what was not. This entire thing felt real. The crime scene looked real, the floor beneath her feet felt real, and her fear was very real. But the town that had been quite real when she'd first arrived with Rigsby and the Doctor no longer seemed real at all. She looked outside the window, and everywhere she saw cracks. They weren't just confined to the ground any longer. They snaked up houses; they split trees. They were growing, spreading. They were a maze of interconnecting patterns too dizzying to follow. But they only grew longer, those cracks. Never wider.

At least, not so far.

She wondered if they'd done something wrong by coming here after all. She wasn't sure how things had been before they'd arrived—Jane hadn't exactly given her details—but since they'd been here, things seemed to have plunged into a downward spiral. And every minute that passed was more confusing than the last.

She'd hoped, back in Sacramento, that Jane would be able to explain things. That's why she hadn't protested, hadn't questioned him, when he'd said he'd booked three plane tickets for them. That in itself had been an oddity, but she'd come to expect no less from Jane. Since coming here, though…. Since coming here, she'd realized that that made more sense than the rest of this world.

She didn't know where she was, not really. If it was home, she didn't recognize it. But she didn't know what else it could be.

The Doctor had asked her to believe that time was fluid and that travel through it was possible. He'd said that it could be wounded, and that if she believed nothing else, he needed her to believe that. He'd implied that he couldn't offer her more proof than what she'd seen from that Easter egg, but looking outside told her otherwise. This was, in a way, his proof that what he had been saying was true, every last bit of it.

They were in danger, caught up in a trap that she couldn't properly understand. She believed him now. She believed that he knew what was going on, and she believed that he was the only one who really knew enough to fix it. Everything he'd been saying didn't make sense, exactly, but it sounded plausible now.

Plausible. That was a laugh. It could only be plausible in this twisted reality, where reasoning followed rules that no one understood. She felt like she'd gone down the rabbit hole or through the looking glass, getting nonsensical explanations when she asked for clarification—explanations that, as time went on, began to make a bit of sense.

The Doctor came downstairs just then, the Doctor she hadn't met before coming to Bluewater but whom she knew quite well—or would, at least, in his future and her past. Though she couldn't begin to understand that bit. If he really was a time traveller, and she'd met his future self and now she was interacting with his past self, couldn't something go terribly wrong?

Perhaps it already had. Or perhaps it didn't matter, on top of everything else. He'd said something about malleable timelines as if she was supposed to accept that as a reasonable explanation that answered all her questions. She wasn't sure what he meant, really. She just had to accept it. She had a feeling that he knew that, that he knew she was just so confused by everything that all she did was nod and accept what he said without understanding it, and she had the distinct feeling that he was not only used to that, but also that he found it a bit comforting.

"Where's everyone else?" he asked. It was a reasonable enough question; he hadn't been gone long, and the others had set out only a few minutes ago, so if he hadn't seen them, he would have expected everyone to stay put.

"They went out," she answered. "Jane and Lisbon went to question Officer Waterer. Rigsby and, er—"

"My other self," the Doctor supplied, sounding a bit annoyed. "What was his brilliant idea, then? I thought _he'd_ at least know enough not to wander off."

"He went to question Julia again," Van Pelt replied.

"Oh," the Doctor said. "At least he's gone off to do something sensible, then. I was going to do that next. But I would have liked to leave him here with you. I don't like leaving you lot by yourselves. You're liable to get into loads of trouble."

Van Pelt looked at him for a moment, trying to understand everything he was saying. Then she asked, "You're leaving, too?"

"I've got a signal," the Doctor explained, showing her his device—what was it? Oh, yes. Sonic screwdriver—with the blinking blue light at its tip. "I've figured it out now, you see. They were clever, and perhaps a bit foolish, whoever put this trap together. Its centre, its origin, isn't fixed. It can move; it _is_ moving, even now. A moving target is harder to hit, you know, and harder to find. But I've found it, or at least its signal, and when I get there, I ought to be able to get the first clear set of readings I'll have taken since I first came here."

"And what will they tell you? Those readings?"

"Oh, I won't really know until I take them," the Doctor answered, sounding cheerful. "But I'm sure that, once I have them, figuring this out will be a lot easier."

"And will you be able to find out what happened to Cho?"

"If I'm lucky," the Doctor responded carefully.

Van Pelt was quiet for a few seconds. "You said you've seen this sort of thing before, or at least you know about it. Even if you don't know for certain, what do you think happened?"

The Doctor pulled a face. "I really ought to be going," he said instead. "If I wait too long, the signal will fade. It's a bit intermittent as it is, and it changes. It'll take a while for me to find it again if I lose it, and I don't know if I'll be able to take the time to do that."

She'd been expecting an answer, not an evasion. She knew the answer probably wouldn't be something pleasant, and she hadn't expected a measure of relief, but not knowing, guessing, was worse than having to face grim acceptance. In the moment it took for her to get over the shock and sort things out, the Doctor had taken his opportunity to rush outside and start his mad dash after something that he was hoping would help him.

"Wait!" she called, finally finding her tongue as she charged out the door in pursuit. "Just…answer me before you go off again, won't you?" She didn't want to be left alone, but she knew she didn't have a choice. But if he was leaving her, too, he could at least leave her with answers, not questions.

The Doctor stopped, and turned back. "I only have so much time to get these readings," he reminded her.

"Please," she said.

The Doctor made his way back towards her. "I don't know what happened," he told her as he joined her in the middle of the dead street. "I don't know how much is reality and how much is not. And without knowing that, I can't even properly guess."

"But is he—?" She couldn't finish. It hadn't really been all that long, hardly two years, but it seemed that they'd survived so much, their team. To think that they would finally be torn apart by something so crazy, so unreal….

"I don't know," the Doctor repeated.

He needed to go, and he couldn't tell her anything.

She had to accept it. She wasn't going to get answers, no matter how much she wanted them. She couldn't get answers when she asked questions no one knew the answers to. "All right," she said. It wasn't, and they both knew it, but she didn't have anything else to say.

The Doctor started off again, and she turned back. She'd been right; it was unreal. Nothing made sense anymore; nothing followed the logic and reasoning she'd grown up with. Bleeding memories, cracked reality, wrinkled time—it belonged in a story, a dream. Not her life.

She wished it were a dream. Then she could wake up from it, and life would make sense again.

Caught up in her thoughts as she was, Grace Van Pelt wasn't, really, watching where she was going; even though she'd kept her eyes glued to the path in front of her, ever watchful for cracks, she wasn't actually seeing them. At least, not until she stepped on one. Then, she woke up, brought out of her thoughts in an instant. Then, she opened her mouth to scream.

She never had time.


	13. Chapter 13

"Jane," Lisbon started, "just tell me what you're playing at."

"Playing at in terms of what?" Jane asked.

"I want to know what the hell is going on here," Lisbon snapped. Reigning in her temper, she added, "So give me some straight answers."

"Well, Jenny Blake found her neighbours murdered, correct?"

"Yes," Lisbon confirmed, not very happy to be rehashing this _again_.

"But in the time between her finding them and leaving to report it to the police and the police responding, the bodies disappeared, correct?"

"Yes," Lisbon repeated. "Jane, if you're just going to—"

Jane held up a finger to silence her. "Now, the Doctor says that we're caught in a trap that mimics reality, but it's not a perfect mimic, so there are all these little inconsistencies that the clever folk can identify. It is these inconsistencies that tell us we are in a trap. Once the prey—that'll be us, and the Doctor, and whoever else is caught up in here—realizes that they are indeed caught, it is, theoretically, too late for them to escape. The trap begins to break down, hence the cracks, and when it collapses into oblivion, we're lost with it."

"_Jane_—"

"The Doctor believes he is the intended prey," Jane continued, ignoring Lisbon, "and that the bait was this wound in time that the trap was built around, and that he is the only one who can fix things up. Now, _us_—we're secondary, unimportant. We don't matter. We're just innocent causalities in all this. A shame, but unavoidable."

"What's your point?"

"If the Doctor's right, and that's how whoever set up the trap views us, then we have an advantage. No one's going to be anticipating our actions, blocking our every move. We have freedom, so we can escape this."

"How?"

"Oh, I haven't figured that out yet. I'm just working on it."

Lisbon threw up her hands. "What's the use of asking you anything, then, if all you can tell me is what I already know?"

Jane watched her, amused. "You don't mean that," he said. "You asked because you didn't understand, and I've helped clarify it for you. Not completely; there's too much that we don't know. But you are bitter because you think I've got some mastermind plan up my sleeve and am refusing to tell you."

"All right, fine. So I'm bitter. Tell me what you're thinking."

"You're still assuming that I've figured this all out already. You don't want to know what I'm thinking; you want to know what I've already thought and have concluded."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What have you concluded?"

"I've concluded a lot of things. Not necessarily useful. Generally common sense. Nothing too helpful at the moment, I'll admit. I'm still waiting for a few more pieces to fall into place."

Annoyed though she was, Lisbon knew she wouldn't get anything by pushing. Trying to get information out of Jane was like pulling teeth. She probably wouldn't know until he told her—providing he did tell her before he pulled some stupid stunt that got them all into trouble. Usually he was considerate enough to tell her, but not always. It probably depended on whether or not he thought she'd put up with it.

It was getting late now, but Officer Waterer was still at his desk. He looked up when she knocked on the doorframe—the door was open—and bid them to come in. He looked tired. She knew how he felt; it had been a long day, and it wasn't even over yet.

"Do you have any news?" Officer Waterer asked.

"News, no," Jane said before Lisbon had a chance to open her mouth, "but I will pass on a bit of advice: don't step on the cracks."

Officer Waterer looked confused at that. "What cracks?"

"Haven't you looked outside?" Jane asked, gesturing to the window. "Those cracks."

"We're not entirely sure what's going on here," Lisbon put in, "but we're working on it. In the meantime, you're probably safer indoors."

"You don't mean those cracks that that Dr. Smith was going on about earlier, do you?" Officer Waterer asked. "I told him before; the floor in my house was just fine before I sold it to the Williams."

Lisbon was a bit surprised to learn that the Doctor had been questioning Officer Waterer since the cracks had appeared, but she wasn't about to spend her time finding out all the details of that. She'd come for a different reason. "When did you sell your house?" she asked.

"The Williams bought it four years ago. I'd wanted to leave it sooner, but at the same time I didn't want to let go. I'd turned down a couple of offers at first, but when I saw the Williams in there, with their two little children, laughing and playing, I knew they were the right ones for it."

"How did you know?" Jane asked.

"It was a feeling, that's all. Is there something specific that you're trying to find out about, Agent Lisbon?"

"I just want to know more about the Williams themselves," Lisbon replied. "Do you know where they came from, where they'd lived before?"

"If I did, I'm afraid I don't remember it now. But they were good people; they weren't running from something in their past."

"Do you know that for certain?" Lisbon asked. "Did you look into their past?"

"At the time, no," Officer Waterer replied, "but I have since. I couldn't find anything. I thought perhaps their records were tied up in some sort of red tape, which is why I called you in the first place."

"But if you suspected their records were hidden, why do you say that they weren't running from something?" Jane asked.

"They didn't look haunted," Officer Waterer replied. "People who have had something terrible happen in their past usually can't shake that haunted look. You yourself have it, Mr. Jane. And that Dr. Smith, though you both do your best to hide it, and I imagine that you're usually quite successful at it."

Lisbon saw Jane stiffen, and she knew she didn't want that subject breached. But if Officer Waterer couldn't tell her anything about the victims, perhaps he could tell her more about the woman who had found them. "How long have you known Jenny Blake?"

"Jenny?" Officer Waterer repeated. "Since Edith and I moved here. That'll be about twenty-seven years back now. She was a sweet kid. Visited her grandparents, my neighbours, every summer, sometimes for two, three weeks at a time. And when she moved back here, well, I got to know her that much better. She was good friends with Marianne. She didn't deserve to find them like that."

"And how did she find them, exactly?" Jane asked. "She didn't seem to remember much when we questioned her."

"She didn't remember much when we asked her, either. She's blocked it out. Most of what we know comes from the phone call we recorded."

"Phone call?" Lisbon repeated. "You didn't tell me…." She trailed off when she saw Officer Waterer looking at her strangely.

"The phone call Jenny made to us. You listened to it yourself," he said. "You heard what she described, how the bodies looked like they'd been torn apart and left to bleed out. The room's a bloodbath. It's hardly recognizable."

Even Jane looked concerned now. Lisbon wasn't precisely sure what to make of it herself. "Oh, yes," she said, as if she knew exactly what he was talking about. "Please forgive me. I don't know how that could have slipped my mind. I must have been confusing it with something else. We've questioned so many people today; it's difficult to keep track of who said what."

Jane gave her a look that told her, in no uncertain terms, that he knew she was lying through her teeth. Officer Waterer looked wary himself, but took her at her word, perhaps out of respect. She couldn't help but think of what the Doctor had told her, about losing bits of her memory, having them bleed out. It was absurd. It still sounded absolutely crazy. But it was, perhaps, a little bit more believable now.

Perhaps she would forget, just momentarily, one important thing. But not two. She was better than that.

She still wasn't entirely sure what the Doctor had done, or what he'd tried to do, but she was grateful now that he'd done it, that he'd stitched her up. It seemed as if she'd been losing things and never noticing that they were gone until confronted with their absence. Like what she'd had for breakfast. Or if she'd had lunch. Except that she'd been starting to forget important things, things that she would never normally forget.

But then again, if the world could crack, perhaps a bit of forgetfulness wasn't so abnormal after all.

She and Jane asked a few more questions, and as before Officer Waterer answered without asking why she wanted to know all of this. But also, as before, she didn't receive any answers that clarified anything. And when, on their way back to the Williams' residence, Jane asked her what her favourite colour was, she scoffed at him. And when he pressed, she said blue, not having any idea whether or not that was true.

She wasn't sure what disturbed her more—forgetting the important things that she'd never forget ordinarily, or forgetting the little, unimportant things that made her herself and not someone else.

She knew the answer deep down, of course, but she didn't want to admit it. Admitting it made it more real. She felt safer hiding in the jumbled mass of confusion than she did when she exposed the truth. The truth terrified her.

* * *

The Doctor hadn't noticed, immediately, that Grace Van Pelt had vanished. He'd been intent on trying to track down the signal's elusive source and getting the readings he needed. But then he'd thought that perhaps he should tell her that there was a chance that he'd know the answer to her question by the time he got back, and he knew she needed hope, so he'd turned back to tell her that.

By then, she had gone.

And he'd known she wasn't simply inside.

It had been tempting to let that occupy his thoughts, to mull over everything that that meant, but he hadn't dared to let it. He needed to focus. He'd continued on his path, beyond the school, down the main street and towards the centre of town.

It was shortly thereafter that he'd felt such a great shift that he nearly dropped the sonic screwdriver in surprise. Time had bunched up and overlapped and then smoothed out in a different pattern than before. It wasn't a slow shift that would have sluggish effects, spreading outwards from the source. It was instantaneous, abrupt—almost sharp. An effect of the trap, he knew. Wound or not, it only touched so much time, and with the wound infected, there was a barrier that separated the trap from the true reality and stopped the effects from even struggling to reach outwards, which is why the change had snapped into being so suddenly.

He still knew what had happened originally—well, originally for him, at least, since he knew things hadn't been going as his other self had experienced them—but he could also tell, if he deliberately looked back on it, the things that had changed.

Julia McDonald had been written out of history.

Even her parents had never lived in Bluewater, if they still existed at all. But he suspected they might have simply been fictions of the trap and more easily erased. But if Julia McDonald had needed to be written out, she'd been something else. Not likely a real person; her role was too involved, and it would have been too difficult to write her out if that were the case. She had been something else; not real, not fiction, but something in between.

Whatever she had been didn't matter now, he supposed. She was gone. His signal had died with her, it seemed. Whoever it was had managed to cloak it when the timeline was reset. Sneaky. But he'd find it again. Eventually. With a bit of luck. Hopefully.

In the meantime, though, perhaps he ought to track down his other self. He'd probably caused the reset, so he ought to know what was going on. Though, it wasn't as if he couldn't guess. Julia had said something, when his other self had been questioning her with Rigsby, something that she shouldn't have said. She'd been discovered, and punished.

And he was back to square one.

Well, not quite. He did know a few more things now. But it wasn't nearly enough.

The Doctor caught up to his other self heading back to the Williams' residence. He was alone.

The Doctor didn't need to ask. "It's dividing us," was all he said.

His other self faltered, just for a moment. After another minute or so, he asked, "Grace? Or did Patrick and Teresa get back before you left? Because I saw the looks on their faces and I don't expect that they stayed put like I told them to, did they?"

The Doctor shook his head. "No," he replied, answering two questions at once. "It was Grace. She'd followed me out, asking me again what I thought had happened to Cho. I didn't have the heart to tell her, not right then, because I wasn't certain, and when I turned back to tell her something else, it was too late."

His other self stopped, and he followed suit. "We're getting to be too dangerous, especially together," his other self said. "You've realized that, haven't you? Someone's with one of us every time they go. It's not carelessness, and it's not coincidence."

"You think things are twisting too much?" the Doctor guessed.

He received a sharp, unhappy nod in response. "Yes. I'm more sensitive to it than you, seeing as things are changing for me and not for you. It'd be nice to know _when_ things started to change, though. Well, I suppose I know when. Talked with Patrick Jane for a bit, before you turned up again, and it seems that when I went off to Sacramento, you went off to crash a New Year's Eve party." There was a pause. Then, "And you just _had_ to wear that suit, didn't you?"

"I was testing a theory!" the Doctor retorted. A thousand arguments built up on the tip of his tongue, begging to be said, but he swallowed them back. He was usually hard-pressed to win arguments with himself, though he was bound to be right either way, and if he was going to have a good argument, he'd rather it be over something either much more important or much less important, and preferably at a different time. Or not at all. It would depend on his mood, and the circumstances, and a good deal many other things.

"Things moved more quickly for you than they did for me," his other self said. "I hadn't left by the time Rigsby and Van Pelt showed up, though I knew I had to leave after they did. Of course, I didn't dilly dally too much after that. Lisbon still had my key, and I hadn't replaced the spare, but I managed it anyhow, as I'm sure you know."

"Oh, yes," the Doctor agreed. "That I do." He thought for a moment. "You see if you can get the key back. I'll take the TARDIS to Sacramento now myself, and try to follow in your footsteps. Perhaps if you can clear up the infection, once I'm gone and setting things in order for you again, you'll be able to find a way out."

"Wishful thinking," his other self noted, but he didn't deny its possibility. "But, yes. I was going to suggest that anyhow. You going off to Sacramento, I mean. If we wait too much longer, we're liable to lose something entirely. I've felt a few things give, just a bit, twisting one way or another but still coming around to the same end, and I'm sure it's the same for you."

The Doctor nodded. His timeline would be in slightly better shape than his other self's, which would, likely as not, be rent even more by the time they were through. Of course, if all went well, he'd end up with a similar timeline. Well, the same one, really, except with bits welded into it—the changes, overlapping what no longer held true. Bit painful, but a bit of rest would do him the world of good, and it was much better than other things that were becoming alarmingly real possibilities at the moment.

"What have you learned?" his other self asked, and the Doctor quickly filled him in, lapsing into fluid, rapid Gallifreyan in case of unwanted listening ears.

Well, that was his excuse, anyway, though it was quite likely a poor one, seeing that whatever had put the trap together would know at least a little bit of Gallifreyan if it knew the Time Lords at all. But it was awfully good to speak it again, and hear it back, even if it was just his own voice. It made his hearts ache.

Though, he had to admit that it was a good deal better to be carrying on a conversation with himself when he was actually looking another one of his selves in the eye. He figured he must look a lot less daft that way. He probably sounded much better when he talked to the TARDIS. Her responses, at least, could surprise him. But the language he shared with her wasn't the same, being more intimate and intrinsic, and—

"Good luck," his other self said, interrupting his thoughts.

The Doctor offered him a grin. "Think I'll need it, do you?"

His other self wasn't smiling. Of course he wasn't fooled by the grin, especially when he knew precisely how grave the situation really was. "I think we both will," was the grim response.

* * *

The Williams' residence was conspicuously empty when the Doctor reached it. He went straight to the living room and put a cautious hand to the glass window and was relieved to see that it didn't yield. His other self hadn't mentioned, before, that that was what had happened when he'd been back in 1999. It may have been no more than the trap mimicking things to trick him, true, but he suspected that it, like the cracking, was a sign of the collapsing trap. Unlike the cracking, however, it would move much more slowly, given its nature—and the fact that it was, likely as not, twisting apart more than just matter on its way through the years.

If he hadn't figured things out by the time it finally reached them, he would be in a good deal of trouble.

And this time he wasn't, exactly, wholly confident that he could come up with a brilliantly clever idea on the spot.

Usually he could. But these weren't usual circumstances. Not even for him, and he thrived in the unusual and the odd and the obscure and everything else.

It was just as well he wasn't left with his thoughts long; they weren't the most pleasant ones to have. Lisbon came in, stopping short when she only saw the Doctor. Jane slipped in behind her, looked around, and didn't say a word.

"Where's everyone else?" Lisbon finally asked. Her tone told the Doctor, quite plainly, that he'd better have a good explanation.

"I sent my other self off to Sacramento," was all he could say.

"What about Rigsby and Van Pelt?"

Her tone sounded as if it were concealing some sort of desperate hope now, as if she thought they were safe, off together somewhere but about to be back any minute. But before the Doctor could open his mouth to dash that hope, Jane put a hand on Lisbon's arm. "I don't think they're coming," he said quietly.

Lisbon's eyes found the Doctor's, and when she saw confirmation in them, her shoulders slumped. "Why is this happening?" she asked, her mask of confidence and self-assurance falling away for the moment.

The Doctor was tempted to answer, to explain everything to her, and he would have, too, again, even if he didn't think it would really help, but Jane held up a hand to silence him before he could begin. "It doesn't matter why," Jane told Lisbon firmly. "It doesn't even matter how. What matters is that it is."

"_Well_," the Doctor broke in, drawing the word out, "technically, it _does_ matter how it's happening, since if we can figure out how, then we can figure out how to get out. Of course, from the 'how' stems the 'who', or perhaps more of a 'what'. 'When' doesn't matter too much, seeing as it's just a stale pocket of time being continuously recycled and never renewed, so that really won't tell us anything. 'Why' we already know, of course; that's what I explained earlier. And 'where' is a bit self-explanatory in itself, if we're trusting our eyes, which perhaps we oughtn't to be doing, but in light of how long it's taking to collapse, I'd say it's safe to say that this trap easily encompasses this entire town."

Before anyone could say anything to that, though, there was a knock at the door. It wasn't very loud—a few soft, tentative taps; nothing more. When no one moved to answer it, the door opened, and Jenny Blake looked in.

"We're in here, Jenny," Lisbon called. "Come on in."

She seemed relieved to find them, and closed the door behind her. Coming into the living room, she said, "Have you seen what's happened outside?"

Of course they had, for the Doctor knew she was referring to the ever-spreading cracks. He wondered why humans always asked obvious questions—such as 'oh, did that hurt? Are you in any pain?', which he'd seen them ask each other many times, always when the person being asked was clearly hurt, so he never quite saw the point of that. But perhaps they needed reassurance of some sort, though he wouldn't know why. That's just the way they were, that species. Strange, wonderful, idiotic, and absolutely brilliant.

"Yes," Jane answered, "but you knew that when you came in here. You knew we were here because you saw us come in. You were watching us from your house."

Jenny gave him an uneasy smile. "Yes, well, I suppose I'm guilty of that. But these cracks—have you any idea what caused them? I never felt anything."

"You wouldn't have," the Doctor replied shortly.

"But it's hardly been—"

"Yes, I know, and they're spreading, very quickly," the Doctor interrupted. "But you have to promise me, Jenny. Whatever you do, don't step on those cracks, all right?"

She was confused, but compliant. "Of course I won't, not if it's not safe," she said, "but if we aren't safe out there, how can we be any safer indoors?"

To the Doctor's surprise, it was Jane who answered, saying, "Oh, you know. Usual things. Base stability, mostly."

The Doctor grinned. Jane was making it up entirely, he knew, but he was quite good at it. The man went on, throwing in a few more phrases along the same lines that soon had Jenny wearing a look the Doctor was quite used to seeing when he was explaining something. She was soon nodding and agreeing, understanding little more than she had when she'd first come in.

Bit of a pity, really, but probably for the best. She struck him as the type to panic, especially now that so much of her had slipped away—away into the past, according to his other self. He wasn't sure what that meant. He wasn't sure if it meant anything at all. She had been scarred, and his other self had clearly made an attempt to close that wound, but it was still bleeding at the edges and seeping in the middle. He'd never had time, himself, to stitch her up, or attempt to do that. He'd been too busy with everything else. Not that much of that stood anymore. All he had was information left from it.

Information that was, on the whole, generally quite irrelevant now. Unless, of course, he lined it up with things that were happening now. Even considering the time differences between his departure to Sacramento and his other self's departure, he could match up a number of things that were the same, especially now that he knew it all.

Granted, lining things up like that did make the differences seem more evident.

More glaring.

Much more obvious.

Like they had been there right under his nose the whole time.

Oh, he could be so thick.

And, evidently, he could completely tune out a conversation when his mind was otherwise occupied, because the three of them were looking at him as if they expected him to say something. And he couldn't, not now, not without making an outright accusation. He wasn't entirely sure it was right, not yet. It just _seemed _to be. Logically. Unless he'd missed a whole handful of other variables, which he supposed was possible, but unlikely.

And then Jenny, perhaps reading the look on his face, smiled at him.

It was not a particularly nice smile.

That was all the confirmation the Doctor needed. Carefully, not taking his eyes off her, he pulled Lisbon and Jane closer to him, away from her, ignoring the startled protests he got for his troubles. Looking directly at Jenny, he said, very quietly, "You've been planning this all along, haven't you?"

She didn't even have to answer for him to know that, this time, he was all too right.

* * *

A/N: All right, be honest, it still took a while for you to figure out who it was, right?


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: I'd just like to thank everyone who's left me a review; they're quite appreciated, I assure you.

* * *

"I would have expected you to piece it together more quickly, Doctor," Jenny said. "You didn't do your reputation justice."

"This isn't finished yet," the Doctor reminded her, keeping his voice low.

"Oh, but it is," she countered. "You're caught in my trap and you can't get out. And you can't stop it from collapsing, can you? It's cracking apart, and you know what that means."

"You don't have to do this," the Doctor said. "You can stop this, right now. It doesn't have to end this way."

"Of course it does," Jenny insisted, laughing a bit. "It always must. You'll lose your companions, Doctor, one by one, and then you'll be left to die, alone."

The Doctor bristled. She had gotten inside his head. But she didn't have everything right; there hadn't been any knocking. He wouldn't die here. That meant that he _did_ get out. Granted, prophesy wasn't ever clear and straightforward, even if it sounded, just for a moment, as if it were. What he had been taking at face value could mean something else entirely. But, this time, he doubted it. Carmen had been trying to help him; she wouldn't have led him astray, not intentionally. She would have told him as clearly as she could.

Jenny shouldn't know any of that. But the way she was talking told the Doctor, quite clearly, that she wasn't just guessing. He could only think of one time when she could have slipped into his mind and he wouldn't have, immediately, noticed. The breach of trust made him angry, both at himself for his foolishness and her for her deviousness, but anger wouldn't help now. It didn't help, ever. Not really. Especially not when he needed to keep a clear head, to keep events in order and memories intact, what with everything changing on him, slowly but surely.

And then he remembered that there had been knocking, after all.

Jenny had knocked on the door to come in.

But how many _times_? He hadn't counted. He hadn't been paying too much attention to that; he'd been more concerned about the trap, about how he intended to get out before it collapsed, a process that looked like it was beginning to accelerate more quickly than he could piece things together.

And now….

The Doctor swallowed, hoping his face didn't betray his thoughts, and focussed on the conversation at hand again. "I'd tried to help you," he said. Well, not him—it had been his other self who'd tried to stitch her up, after all—but it came to the same end.

"You would have killed me," Jenny shot back. Seeing his face, she added, scornfully, "Oh, no, not intentionally. The great Doctor wouldn't mean to hurt me just yet, would he, before he knew about me? But you nearly did. A minute more and you would have. I had to change your mind for you, Doctor, plant an idea that you would follow, because I couldn't risk having you trying to break through my defences to leave me vulnerable. No, I needed you to go and twist your timeline even more. I needed you to change things more than you had, to ensure that you wouldn't survive this."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows, not letting her see how deeply her words cut. "Really?" he asked lightly. "Poor choice of bait, then. Because the wound became infected when the two of us came together, you know, once things had been changed enough. The infection started even before that. And you ought to know, being in control of the trap all this time, that an infected wound would work in my favour. It was precisely what I needed."

Jenny smiled at him, and called his bluff. "It only helps, Time Lord, if you can rid yourself of the infection in time. Oh, I know it's spread to you, that it's begun to prey upon your timeline. A bit of infection works in your favour, yes, but you won't be able to control it, and then it will work in mine."

He'd been hoping she wouldn't know that. Now he couldn't tell if she'd known it from her brief excursion into his mind or if she'd planned for him to get infected from the start. He risked a quick glance at Lisbon and Jane, who were silent as they watched the exchange. He doubted they understood much of it. Just as well. But thank goodness they had enough sense not to speak up. He didn't want them to draw Jenny's attention, not now.

But one look was one too many. Jenny pounced on it. "You still worry about them, don't you? And you don't even know if they're creations of mine. And if they aren't, well, you've lost so many of them already, haven't you? Julia was right about one thing, Doctor—they're lost. But they aren't lucky. No one's lucky here."

"You had no right to murder her," the Doctor said, keeping his voice low. "She was just a child."

"She was just a memory," Jenny responded. "She was never properly alive."

"She thought she was, before you took it away from her, and that's enough," the Doctor insisted.

"You still can't see how much is just illusion, Doctor. How can you ever think you'll escape if you can't manage something as simple as that?" Jenny laughed again, as if she were thoroughly enjoying herself. "You aren't in control, Doctor. I am. And I can control those cracks. It's been long enough; they now have the strength to break into here." She swept an arm towards them.

The Doctor jumped backwards instinctively, but nothing happened immediately. He wasn't Jenny's target, anyway. Scarcely a second later, a crack opened up under Lisbon's feet, and she was gone. Jane stiffened, but still he didn't speak.

"There was no call for that!" the Doctor protested. He was alarmed; she was stronger than he'd thought.

"It's much better to pick them off, one by one," Jenny said. "Particularly now that you know you are responsible for their deaths. And I've heard tell that you're more partial to your female companions as of late."

"That's not true," the Doctor countered. It wasn't. He cared for everyone he took on as a companion. They all held special places in his hearts, each and every one of them. No two were alike. He valued that. But perhaps some sores were still a little more tender than others, and it wasn't just the amount of time that had passed since he'd acquired the pain. It hurt when old wounds were torn open, but he could set them to heal when he put his mind to it. Look at Sarah Jane, out solving mysteries herself, just like they had done together so many years ago, and with an adopted son to love on top of that. And Rose was happy, now, so he could be happy, too. And Martha was doing well, and her family was safe. And Donna….

Donna was just like she used to be, before she'd met him, and she would continue to live her life as she would have.

But to think that everyone he had touched here, everyone who wasn't just a fabrication, would die at his own hand, or in his place, or somehow because of him, like so many others—

It hurt.

And Jenny was right. He was running out of time. Now that she was taking active control, without the need for subtlety, the process was accelerating. It wouldn't be long before it started increasing exponentially. He wouldn't have very long then. Certainly not enough time to escape alive.

"Perhaps not," Jenny allowed, though the way she was looking at him told him, quite plainly, that she thought otherwise, "but the rest is, Doctor. I can control the cracks, and everyone who falls through them is lost to you forever."

"Stop it," the Doctor said.

"Stop what, Doctor? Telling you the truth that you don't want to hear? Because it is all your fault, you know. Every last bit of it. I'm only here because of you. If you weren't so foolish as to be caught up in my trap in the first place, no one would have had to die."

"Stop this, right now," the Doctor commanded, "or I'll put an end to it, and—"

Jenny's laughter cut him off. "Put an _end_ to it?" she repeated. "You can't put an end to it when you can't find its beginning. You're trapped. It's as simple as that. Things might be easier for you if you admitted it and stopped pretending that you can get out. I know you can't; you've tried, and you've failed, and you haven't any other ideas. I know how you think, Doctor, and I've seen your thoughts. You're just bluffing."

"Get out," the Doctor ordered. "Get out now. You aren't welcome here."

Jenny smiled at him, sweetly, like she had before he'd guessed who and what she really was. "I was invited in. I'm quite welcome here." She settled herself on the arm of a chair to prove her point.

"I'm rescinding the invitation on Teresa Lisbon's behalf," the Doctor growled. "Get out." When Jenny resisted, pulling a face and crossing her arms in defiance, he added, "You have to. Now that you've revealed yourself, you have to abide by the rules. You don't have a choice; those rules were woven into you, and I'm calling on one in particular to be invoked. As your prey, I get one last chance to escape, and then you get to pull out all the stops. You can try to stop me, using whatever is in your power to command, but you can't directly interfere. If whoever created _you_ were around and watching, they wouldn't want their entertainment spoiled by a bit of software jumping to conclusions."

Jenny stood, the smile wiped off her face. "You'll lose," she told him bluntly.

"I haven't yet," the Doctor retorted, "either now or in any game I've played before. Don't underestimate me."

"Don't overestimate yourself," Jenny returned. She took a few steps towards the door and then turned back, asking, "How many more people are you going to risk, Doctor, as you try to do what you cannot?"

"_Go_," he ordered.

"Oh, one last thing, first," Jane said, speaking up for the first time. Jenny looked back at him, her gaze sweeping him up and down, sizing him up, but she made no comment. She was waiting. "How are the cracks and the bleeding connected?" he asked.

Jenny snorted, as if she couldn't believe the idiocy of the question. "They aren't," she replied shortly. "I control the cracks. I'm quite sure that the Doctor has told you that they are an indication of the collapsing trap, which is one aspect that he has correct. And I've already said what happens when you have the misfortune of finding yourself standing on one. I wouldn't speak out of turn, Patrick Jane. You won't last very long if you do."

"So what's the bleeding, then?" Jane pressed.

"Precisely what you were told, I'm sure. It's part of the bait, the wound. I can mimic its effects and manipulate the outcomes, but I can't control it. I don't need to. It's serving its purpose simply by existing and infecting the Doctor. His last moments in this existence will be delightfully painful ones—wracked with grief for what he's done, or failed to do, I'm sure."

"And what's the key to all this?"

Jenny laughed. "Not that stone in your pocket, if that's what you're thinking. I believe you'll find it's nothing more than a red herring, and a rather effective one at that. As for the real key, well, if one existed, I wouldn't be at liberty to tell you, would I? As the good Doctor pointed out, I can no longer interfere directly and influence you one way or the other by myself, not now that he's invoked the final rule."

Jane kept his expression neutral. "All right, then," he said. "You can go."

Shaking her head, Jenny went to the door. Pausing one last time at the threshold, she added, "Oh, Doctor, if you were wondering how much time you have, you'll notice it's not as much as you'd like. Reality's beginning to warp." With a final laugh, she left.

The Doctor watched her go, rounding the corner and strolling out of the sight. Then, he tested the window with his hand. Jenny was right.

He turned back to Jane, who looked unsurprised by the fact that glass had apparently lost its firmness. "I have less than ten minutes," he said. "Probably less than five. I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. You shouldn't have been caught up in this. None of you should have been."

"But we were," Jane said, shrugging. "And now you're stuck with me. So that means that _we_ have less than ten minutes."

"I'm not letting you take any chances," the Doctor said immediately. "You have to stay safe."

"I can't," countered Jane. "There's nowhere that is safe, is there? Can you tell me a place that is perfectly safe?" The Doctor remained silent. "Just as I thought," he concluded.

"You don't have to do this," the Doctor informed him. "Trying to help me could get you killed."

"It sounds like I'll be killed even if I don't help you," Jane pointed out. "But if we are going to die, I should point out that you aren't right about everything."

"So I'm told," the Doctor answered. "But we don't have time to—"

Jane didn't let him finish. "You have me wrong," he said, "so do me a courtesy and hear me out. Logic and reason and facts are the tools of my trade, yes. I frown on people who claim to be things that I know they aren't. I've been a fraud and a conman myself, and some people would say I still am, so I know the type." He paused, then added, "And you don't quite fit it. Not exactly. You might be a fraud, but you're not a conman."

"Really?" the Doctor asked, genuinely interested and momentarily distracted. "I would've thought all that impersonation would've counted."

Jane smirked. "You're not a manipulator of truth for your own gain, at least not now."

"And that's your definition of a conman?"

Jane shook his head. "Not entirely. But you don't seem to be the type of person who needs to know everything in its entirety, not if something's sufficient when it's been said, even if you are curious in knowing more."

"Right again," the Doctor agreed. "At least, some of the time." He looked at Jane for a few seconds. "You're still sceptical of this entire thing," he began, "but you—"

"Accepted it, yes," Jane interrupted, "because I saw reason to. But I have to say, I'd rather be the one dreaming."

"Perhaps you would," the Doctor agreed, "though I expect you know I don't share your sentiments for myself."

Jane had long lost his smile. "Yes. But it is nice to have a dream where everyone isn't lost."

Ordinarily, the Doctor would have called him on that, would have made some comment or another about dreams or loss, but he couldn't. The words stuck in his throat. And it wasn't the utter seriousness on Jane's face, something that the Doctor knew, at least this once, was genuine. It was the statement itself, a statement which seemed utterly contradictory of the situation at hand. "What do you mean, where everyone isn't lost?" the Doctor asked, not able to hide his shock.

"They aren't," Jane said. "At least, I don't think so."

"They're still here?" the Doctor exclaimed. "But I can't find—"

"No," Jane interrupted. "You can't. Because this is a trap designed to keep you in, from the sounds of it."

"But—"

"You said that the cracks and the bleeding weren't connected, right?"

"Yes," the Doctor confirmed, "because they aren't."

Jane smiled. "Yes, they are."

The Doctor didn't bother trying to hide his confusion. "What?"

"Do you think Jenny would admit that they were?" Jane asked. "Not if she's controlling this. She's just telling you what you expect to hear."

"What?" the Doctor repeated.

"The cracks are connected to the wound, I think," Jane explained. "Maybe they're a sign of that infection you keep talking about, or the wound somehow rebelling against this trap that's been fitted around it, or something else entirely. But that, in itself, doesn't matter. What's important is that they're connected, meaning that Jenny can't control them, no matter what she wants you to think."

"_What_?"

"I think," Jane continued, "that she can just sense them. At best, she can try to weaken a spot so that it's the next thing to crack."

"But that's—"

"Not impossible," Jane interrupted. "Not if any of this is possible. But whether a setting like this is possible or not, there's no such thing as coincidence, so if the cracks started when the bleeding stopped, then they are connected, and if they're connected, then the cracks are connected to the wound, and if the cracks are connected to the wound, which is separate from this trap, then they aren't as bad as you think they are."

"_What_?"

"Think about it, Doctor. Things fall through the cracks all the time. The others have. And you yourself said you don't know what happened to them. You believe it can't be good, and leave it at that. But you're not always right, Doctor. Is it so hard to believe that you were wrong about this?"

The Doctor couldn't answer him.

"You're so sure," Jane continued, "that the answer is complex and hidden and that only you can figure it out, because the rest of us don't know—can't know—enough to understand the situation, let alone how to get out of it. But the answer's right in front of you, and you've been denying it, overlooking it in favour of something else. It can't be that simple, can it? It has to be a trick. A trap. But that's the beauty of it, Doctor. As long as you believe that, you are still going to be trapped. You wouldn't be able to get out of here, and this trap would collapse around you, and you'd be lost trying to search for another way out, one that doesn't exist."

"You can't be certain," the Doctor quietly pointed out.

"No," Jane agreed. "I can't. It's guesswork. That's all. But I'm a terribly good guesser. Just ask Lisbon. I use all that logic and reasoning and facts that you assume I do, and I use my observations of the situation, and I adapt it, based on what you've told me and on what I've seen for myself. Just because I think something's not possible, it doesn't mean that it isn't. It just means that I haven't experienced it. And if I have to believe that this is possible to escape it, then so be it. I will."

The Doctor looked at him for a long moment. "How do I know," he asked carefully, "that this isn't just part of the trap? That you aren't just saying things as you were programmed to? That you are actually real, and caught in here with me, and genuinely trying to help? How do I know that you aren't just—?"

"Trying to trap you forever?" Jane finished. He shrugged. "You don't, really. All you have is my word. And because you don't know whether or not I'm really me, and there's no way that I can prove that to you, since for all I know, I _am_ just a fabrication of this trap of yours, my word isn't the best thing out there. But it's the only thing that I can offer you."

The Doctor was silent, trying, desperately, to decide, weighing what he knew against what he didn't.

Then Jane added, "Of course, it doesn't hurt that I knew Jenny was lying about the cracks."

The Doctor started. "What?"

Jane smiled. "Well, I was asking her questions before, back when this was just an ordinary case. Cho and I questioned her, before you and Lisbon turned up. I knew she was hiding something then, that she wasn't telling everything she knew. I didn't know what, and frankly I didn't expect it to be what it was. But if she's just a fabrication of this trap herself, engineered by whoever set this thing up, they didn't make her as clever as they thought they did. They made her so she would fit in, at least until you figured out that things weren't quite as they should be, so you wouldn't know any different until you were caught up too far into the trap. And so fit in she did. She behaved as everyone else in this town behaved. She told the truth, as the truth was made to appear. But she also held it back, because of what she was, and I could tell when she was holding it back and when she was lying and when she was telling the truth. I'm quite good at that."

"So you're saying—"

"Yes," Jane confirmed cheerfully. "You don't need ten minutes, or whatever's left of it. If you trust me, you can get out of this trap right now. All you have to do is step on a crack."

The Doctor looked at the crack that split the living room floor, the crack that Lisbon had fallen through, if Jane was correct. Everything told him, quite strongly, that stepping on the crack would be a _very bad idea_. But Jane was right; he didn't know, really, what would happen. He _did_ think it would be bad, because his instincts told him it would be bad. But Julia had told him, before she'd been written out, that he couldn't trust his instincts. That trusting them could get him killed. And Jane was right—Jenny would tell him what he expected to hear. She wasn't obliged to tell the truth.

All that desperate searching, trying to find traces and boundaries and origins and answers, and he'd come up with nothing. Well, nothing that added up properly. Especially since Jenny had managed to interfere with the sonic screwdriver's signals—something he should have realized from the beginning, since he knew now that her interference was the reason it had given him so much trouble right from the start. And he didn't know how Jane had come to the conclusion that he had, so he couldn't follow the logic and see how likely he was to be right. And if the explanation was a long one, he didn't have time to ask. He hardly had time to do anything at all. He had one chance. He had to make a choice whether or not to risk it.

Not that making the choice would be terribly difficult. He thrived on risk-taking. He almost always cut things close. He often only had once chance to get it all right. And he'd taken advice before. Just…not often. Because usually, no one knew enough to offer him advice in the first place.

Except this time.

And he hadn't even expected it.

Well, no, that was a lie; he had expected it, just a little bit. He'd known that Jane knew a good deal about the entire situation. He just…hadn't expected him to be able to piece things together as he had, especially with his attitude. It wasn't one the Doctor could pin down. Disbelief and scepticism were prevalent, but even when others faced with the same thing would have remained incredulous, Jane had put those feelings aside to figure this entire situation out. Putting such things aside wasn't something the Doctor would have expected from a man with his character. He seemed too…well, not stubborn, and not down-to-earth, and not even realistic, just…. The Doctor couldn't find the right word. Perhaps there wasn't a proper one to describe him. He was a survivor, and bore all the scars of whatever hardships he'd come through, and he was driven towards something, and he was determined not to give up until he had it, or found it, or accomplished it, whatever it was.

This was just one more crazy situation for him, and he wasn't going to let it tempt him into straying from his path, and if he had to believe a lot of things he would ordinarily scoff at to do that, he would.

Perhaps he did have more control over his mind and character than the Doctor had given him credit for.

"You'd be able to sort out this wound in time once you were out of the trap, wouldn't you?" Jane asked.

The Doctor nodded. "Yes," he answered. "If I work quickly enough, I'll be able to tidy it up, cleaning out the infection and sorting whatever it's thrown off course before stitching the wound closed. If it heals cleanly, which it should, there will never have been any indication that there was ever a wound here." He didn't add that, even if Jane was right and he would be able to escape the trap by stepping on the crack, he'd end up in Bluewater while the rest of them were shunted back to Sacramento where they belonged, falling back into place at the beginning of the day as if this hadn't happened to them—except that anything he'd done would still stand, meaning that his TARDIS would still be in the broom closet, and he'd be miles away from it. Which meant, essentially, that though a thorough examination of the wound from the outside would tell him whether or not anything had been changed, he wouldn't have the means to fix it until he got back to Sacramento, but he probably wouldn't _make_ it back to Sacramento before the infection of his timeline became so advanced that he could no longer hold it back and stop it from destroying pieces of his life altogether.

There _was_ the slim possibility that he would have some good luck for a change, and the infection, being contained for the most part in the trap, wouldn't have spread outside of its boundaries. Then, when the trap collapsed, it would take the worst part of the infection with it and, if he escaped, he'd be able to lance the few areas where the infection was building up before they became critical—and he wouldn't even _need_ the TARDIS for that. And if the wound healed quickly and cleanly without complication, he'd be able to take the time to nurse his own infected timeline back to health because he wouldn't need to be rushing back for the TARDIS before things became too difficult for him to deal with alone.

Granted, if any of this worked, he would wake up with an awful headache back in the real town of Bluewater. Well, he said headache. It would be more of a migraine. And the splitting pain wouldn't just be confined to his head. His entire body would ache. He'd be weak, and probably would only be able to manage a crawl at best. He'd have a fever. He might even be sick to his stomach, but even if he wasn't, he certainly wouldn't have an appetite. He'd be tired, but probably unable to sleep, unless he forced himself to it. But he couldn't risk that. With a merged, infected timeline, he couldn't just slip into a healing coma. He wouldn't be able to come out of it if he did, not by himself. Holding it off would be difficult, though, since he'd have to use to last of his energy to fix up the wound. He'd be lucky to stay conscious for it all, though he couldn't risk slipping into unconsciousness for so much as a nanosecond, so he'd have to be conscious anyway, no matter how difficult he found it.

But he'd take all of that if it meant that Jane was right and those people were alive and that he could sort this entire mess before things escalated too much more.

"And you'd be able to deal with that malleable, infected timeline of yours?" Jane queried, watching him carefully.

"Oh, yeah," the Doctor said, with a lot more confidence than he really felt. "I'll be all right."

Jane raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't challenge him. "Have you made up your mind, then?"

Despite his resolve, the Doctor still hesitated.

"Well, on your own head be it," Jane said, and then he stepped on the crack and was gone.

Patrick Jane was confident in his conclusions, as the Doctor was so often confident in his. He'd made his decision to trust the man; why was it so hard to _act _on that trust? He was wrong, that's all. Sometimes, despite everything, he was wrong, and he had to be corrected. This just happened to be one of those times.

Admitting that he was wrong was just…hard. He wasn't used to it.

It could all be a trap, yes. But it wouldn't matter now, even if it was, because the trap was in its final phases; it had nearly collapsed. He was nearly locked in anyway, caught without a way out. He wouldn't let that happen again. He'd always find a way out. Even if he cut it close, he'd find it.

The way out had been found this time, just not by him. But that wouldn't stop him from taking advantage of it, no matter how much his instincts cried out against that decision. He remembered Julia McDonald, and what she had given up to warn him of this very thing. He'd heed her advice, not scorn it. If he couldn't trust his instincts, then it was all the more likely that the very thing that they were telling him not to do was precisely what he needed to do to escape.

The Doctor took a deep breath, and then he stepped on the crack.


	15. Chapter 15

It had already been, Lisbon figured, a long day—and she wasn't even sure if it was past ten o'clock, let alone noon. She was almost grateful to have a new case, even though it meant that someone had been murdered for her to get it. But the odds and ends that they'd been doing recently were tedious, and she was glad of the break.

She needed one, too. The text on the papers in front of her was swimming in front of her eyes. She blinked, and after a moment it came into focus. A couple of kids—well, teenagers, but they had still been skipping school—had been heading out to one of their favourite fishing spots, it seemed, when they'd come across a dead body. Male, Caucasian, approximate thirty years of age, and three gunshot wounds—two to the chest, one to the head. Whoever had done it had wanted him dead. And now it was her job, with her team, to find out who had done it and why.

"We've got another case," Lisbon announced, striding out into the bullpen. Rigsby, Van Pelt, and Cho looked at her expectantly. Jane remained on his couch, one arm slung over his eyes, and for all she knew, he was asleep. "French Meadows Reservoir, up in the Tahoe National Forest." She gave them the rest of the details, just waiting for Jane to speak up and make some comment or another.

He didn't.

"Hey, Jane," she called, "rise and shine. We've got a case."

Still nothing.

"Jane?" she called again, moving closer. It wasn't like him to sleep on the job. Rest his eyes, yes, but sleep?

She nearly jumped out of her skin when he moved. "Sorry," he said, catching sight of her face. "Must've nodded off there for a minute."

She had been all set to give him a lecture on practical jokes, but he looked a bit confused, like he actually _had_ just woken up, and she wasn't sure if he could really fake that. "We've got a case," she informed him shortly.

"Do we now?" he asked. "And here I was, just dreaming that we'd been off on one." He patted his pockets for a moment, but couldn't find anything. "Pity," he said, more to himself than to her or anyone else. "I suppose nothing that wasn't real kept."

"Obviously," Lisbon said, even though she wasn't wholly sure what he meant. "Now, if you're awake, I'd like to get going."

"Did you cut yourself?" Jane asked, pointing to her forehead. He touched a place above his right eye, up near his hairline. "You were bleeding. You've got a bit of dried blood right there."

"What?" Lisbon moved her hand to the appropriate spot on her forehead, and she could feel the scab. It wasn't much; hardly more than she'd expect from a paper cut. But on her head? She didn't know when she'd cut herself, let alone how. It couldn't have been that long ago, but it didn't hurt, even now that she knew about it.

Bleeding.

That brought back enough memories of her own dream. Not that what she recalled made much sense now. Actually, what she recalled made absolutely no sense whatsoever, which was why she knew it had to be a dream. Trouble was, her mind kept drifting back to it. She'd been thinking about it before, when she'd been reading the file for the new case. And it all seemed so vivid, what she did recall—though that was, admittedly, considerably more than she usually recalled when it came to dreams.

But, fortunately, dreams were just dreams, and she didn't need to worry about them.

She gave the last of her instructions, then went back into her office to grab her jacket before heading out. Jane followed her. When he closed to the door behind him, she glanced up. "Did you have something more to say?" she asked.

"Well, clearly I do," Jane pointed out simply, "or I wouldn't be here."

She frowned at him. "You know what I mean."

Jane inclined his head slightly, then asked, "How are you feeling?"

Lisbon raised her eyebrows. "You came to ask me how I was feeling?" she repeated sceptically.

"Yes," Jane replied. To her surprise, he looked serious.

Of course, he usually _did_ look serious before he broke out into a grin.

"I'm fine," she said, keeping just enough of an edge in her voice so that he knew she did not appreciate him wasting time like this.

"Really?" he asked, as if he were oblivious to her annoyance. "So what's your favourite colour?"

Lisbon wanted to rebuke him, to tell him, in no uncertain words, that it was none of his business and if he was as good as he claimed to be, he ought to know what it was anyway. He probably did, as far as that went. But no matter what she wanted to say, she couldn't get the words out. The question brought back too many confused memories of—

It _was_ a dream. She wasn't even going to consider it _not_ being a dream.

Besides, she'd checked the date.

Definitely a dream.

"Green," she said, waiting for him to challenge her.

He didn't.

But he also didn't leave.

"What else?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Can you do something for me?"

Lisbon rolled her eyes. "_Jane_—"

"Oh, it's really simple; don't worry. Just empty your pockets."

She gave him a look that he ought to know well by now, but as always, it didn't have the desired effect. "Why?"

"I'm curious," he replied.

"I'm not going to—"

"Please," Jane added, interrupting her. "I just want to know if you have one thing, that's all."

Lisbon glared at him, but decided it wasn't worth arguing. It wasn't like she had much in her pockets anyway; it wouldn't take long. Her badge, keys, a pen, a bit of paper, keys—

Wait a minute. That last one wasn't _keys_, it was _key_, singular, and….

It wasn't hers.

All she could do was stare at it. She _recognized _it, but she couldn't, because that hadn't been real, it was just—

Jane plucked the key in question out of her hand, held it up for a moment, studying it, nodded, and gave it back to her. "All I wanted to know," he said, and turned to leave.

"Hold on," Lisbon said, finding her voice. "This isn't mine."

Jane turned back to smile at her. "Oh, I know that."

"So how did I get it?"

"I expect you know that," Jane replied, "even if you don't want to believe it. I gave it to you."

"That was just a dream," Lisbon said softly.

"We both had the same dream?" Jane smirked. "That, my dear Lisbon, is not going to happen. Of course, I'm sure if you'd like to bring it up, we can find out if Cho and Rigsby and Van Pelt had the same dream. That would make a good discussion for the drive out, wouldn't it? Let's see how much we can all remember."

"Jane, I'm not going to—" Lisbon broke off. "Look, don't…bring this up, okay?"

"You think ignoring it will make it go away?"

"Just this once, I do," she answered quietly. "Because I'd rather that it was all just a dream. And I hope a good many other people we saw in that dream woke up this morning feeling the same way."

"Oh, did you wake up this morning?" Jane asked, looking mildly surprised. "I just woke up now. Not that I was really asleep, of course. Not if any of that happened, which clearly it did, if you still have that key."

Perhaps it hadn't been this morning. Perhaps it had only been earlier, when she'd come back to herself after her thoughts had wandered. But if she recalled everything correctly, she wasn't the only one to come out of it, whatever it was, with a souvenir of sorts. "Does Cho still have the keys to the other vehicles, then?"

"I doubt it," Jane replied. "He would have said something. Besides, I'd had a stone in my pocket, and it's gone now, so I expect that it, like the keys Cho had had, weren't real, and they couldn't come back with us."

So that's what he'd meant. But if that was right, then— "So the Doctor was real, then, if this is his key?"

"Well, if he is, he probably wants it back, so perhaps you ought to leave it here," Jane said. "And when it's gone, you can pretend, like you so clearly want to do, that this really was all just a dream."

"But it wasn't."

"I know that, and you know that, and they might work it out," Jane pointed out, "but if you can't admit it to yourself that it's all been real, could you admit it to any of them? They might not even mention it to each other. And do you really want to admit that it's true, even if it is, because of everything that you'd have to accept once you do that?"

"Not really," Lisbon admitted. Ignoring a problem didn't make it go away; usually, it just made it worse. But just this once, perhaps ignoring this…conundrum…wouldn't be such a bad idea, no matter what Jane thought.

Granted, the way he was jumping around, she wasn't really quite sure _what_ he thought.

Lisbon shifted uncomfortably on her feet for a moment. "What should I do?" she asked quietly.

"If you want answers," Jane replied, knowing she was referring to the Doctor's key, "I'd suggest that you keep it with you, because then you're bound to encounter the Doctor again." He paused, then added, "If you don't think you'll get answers, you should leave it here."

"What?" Lisbon asked, making a face. "So what am I supposed to do if I want answers but don't think I'll get them?"

Jane shrugged. "You can always wait here," he said.

"We have a case," she reminded him. "I can't just stay here."

"Then you'll have to gamble," Jane replied, and he slipped out of the room before she could say anything else.

Lisbon stared at the key she held again. Jane hadn't given her all the options, she knew, but he _had_ given her the only ones she'd thought about considering even as she'd asked the question, though she'd hoped for different outcomes than what he had predicted.

She was confused, yes. She was confused as hell. But she wanted answers. If she had to deal with the Doctor again to get them, so be it.

Lisbon pocketed the key, along with everything else she had unearthed earlier at Jane's request, grabbed a few other things out of her office, and went to join the others.

* * *

The Doctor opened his eyes, and though he almost immediately wished he hadn't, he kept them open. His head was spinning, and he felt…horrible. He was on his back, and though his muscles felt like they were on fire, he rolled over onto his hands and knees. The movement made him retch, though it was a dry heave, and he just stayed there for a moment, gathering his strength.

He'd known to expect this, but it was still worse than he'd anticipated.

On the upside, it meant that Patrick Jane had been right. He'd escaped the trap.

At least, he'd thought that he'd escaped the trap.

Carefully, painfully, the Doctor reached into his pocket for his sonic screwdriver. He found it, checked the setting, and turned it on. After a moment, he let out a sigh—well, more of a sob, if he was perfectly honest—of relief. This wasn't a trick. He really was free of it.

But now he had work to do, and he couldn't justify putting it off, no matter how awful he felt.

Gathering his strength, the Doctor concentrated on the wound, casting his consciousness out onto the temporal plane. He was lucky; the trap _had_ confined the infection—more so than he'd hoped. There was only one place that was harbouring an infection. It hadn't spread; it wasn't even very far advanced—the worst of it had been ripped away when the trap collapsed. The tear wasn't clean, which was mainly why he was surprised it wasn't worse than it was, but the tear wasn't such that he couldn't clean the wound up and stitch it closed without too much difficulty.

It took him a good deal longer than he would have liked. He needed to concentrate, and he had to keep pushing away the thoughts that wandered into the forefront of his mind. It became more difficult as the process went on—he was getting weaker. But he pushed on regardless, matching the ragged ends up and tying them together and smoothing it out, trying not to leave a scar. He cleaned out the infection as thoroughly as he could, scraping away the hours and minutes that had been destroyed, trying to save the days and weeks, compensating when he couldn't.

When he finally finished, he nearly couldn't make it back. He knew where he had to go; he just didn't have the energy to do it. That terrified him. He was used to being able to make it through nearly anything. He depended on his own strength. To think that he didn't have enough, that he'd be lost, here, hardly more than a weakening conscious thought—that would be horrible.

Fear and determination helped him back, but he didn't have the strength to hold himself up anymore. His limbs shook and collapsed, betraying him. He sucked in gulps of air, but couldn't breathe, and his respiratory bypass system was slow to kick in. But on the bright side, both of his hearts were beating—slowly and sluggishly, but beating nevertheless.

He had a good view of the floor from his position, and more than enough time to examine it. It was a familiar floor—he was still in the Williams' living room. It wasn't cracked, except for those tiny cracks from age. But it wasn't well kept, either. No one had lived here for a while. Turning his head slightly, the Doctor stuck out his tongue and tasted the hardwood. He'd guess that no one had been living in here for at least five years. People had passed through since then, he thought, but no one had actually lived in the house.

That meant that if he wanted so much as a drink, he had to get outside, where he'd be noticed. Well, outside and probably to the nearest house. Well, nearest occupied house. He'd have to find the strength to move, at any rate.

He was exhausted, but he was determined.

Trouble was, determination was more mental than physical, and he was having a bit of trouble getting his muscles to obey him.

He wouldn't tell anyone, if he was ever asked, how long it had taken him to crawl to the door, pull himself up, and stagger outside. He spent time enough clinging to the railing of the patio, leaning against it for support, listening intently so that he knew which direction to go in.

Jenny's house was also unoccupied, but that didn't really surprise him. If she had existed, she didn't anymore, and she'd simply been used as a template. But there was someone across the street. He could get help there. He wasn't sure what he needed, exactly. A bit more than a cup of tea. He needed rest, yes, but he couldn't afford a deep rest, not here, not when he wasn't entirely sure if he could come out of it. If he had had the TARDIS, he would've been safe. But he didn't.

No one answered when he knocked. He wasn't sure if he was knocking loudly enough, so he found the bell and rang it. Still nothing. He rang it again, and again, and once more for good measure. He sagged against the door, wondering how he'd gotten the wrong place, when the door opened and he fell inwards, unable to catch his balance.

"Oh, my dear— Jim! Jim, help me here, would you?"

The Doctor eased himself onto his hands and knees and then slowly made his way onto his feet. "Sorry," he croaked, leaning back against the wall. "Wasn't expecting that."

The elderly woman who'd answered the door looked him up and down and then, with a good deal more strength than he'd given her credit for at first glance, slipped his arm over her shoulder and pulled him further into her house and, mercifully, let him down on a couch. It was a blessing not to have to hold his own weight. And he didn't mind that the woman fussed over him, fretting about one thing or another. He told her he'd be all right, but she didn't look like she believed that for a second, and she felt his forehead and kept asking him questions, like his name and the date and if he knew where he was and his name again, not his profession, his _name_, and seemed more satisfied when he told her John Smith.

She didn't ask what he had been doing, though he supposed she thought that was a tale for another time, when he was more coherent. She didn't look like she wanted to be asking him questions now. She'd had Jim, who he assumed was her husband, ring up Lloyd Waterer, and the Doctor was relieved to find out that he'd escaped, too. And then she set about taking his temperature, which was high for a human, let alone for him, and fretting about this and that and telling him how she was a mother and a grandmother and that she knew how to nurse someone back to health, so he was in good hands. Her name was Ellie, and he didn't need to worry. She'd be able to help him.

Except she couldn't, not when she didn't really understand. The Doctor tried to explain, but she kept shushing him or getting him to sip some of the water that Jim had brought. It was warm, and he still choked on it when he tried to drink it. Finally he got her to promise not to let him sleep for very long, and that she'd keep waking him up no matter what she thought, and he had to trust that she wasn't just humouring him and that he looked desperate enough that she believed him.

Unfortunately, as soon as he'd made the decision to get some merciful rest, he was interrupted. He'd hardly closed his eyes, and then Ellie was shaking him and talking to him and telling him that Lloyd Waterer was here to help him if he could only answer a few questions, and that they were going to take him in to Dr. Brin just as soon as he got back—he'd been good enough to run out to the Fletcher farm this morning. Their daughter was— But he didn't need to know all of that, did he, being ill as he was. Still, he needn't worry; they'd take care of him.

But he _did_ worry. Lloyd Waterer was giving him a look that told the Doctor he could nearly place him, and if he did, well, that would be more explaining than he had the energy to do at the moment. Well, if he explained properly. Well, even if he just gave the gist of it. Well, giving the gist would probably prompt so many questions that he'd end up explaining properly anyway, so even that likely wouldn't do….

Oh, it was a struggle to keep his eyes open, let alone answer questions. The Doctor tried to keep focussed, but it was difficult. He could imagine a number of his past companions who'd take a crack at _that_, probably wondering how he could tell, but they didn't really understand. Not that they could. He didn't expect them to. But they ought to at least have the decency not to pretend _he _was the one with the short attention span when _they _were the ones who always wandered off because they couldn't stay put.

Not that he could ever rebuke them too much when they wandered off. They always seemed to find useful things. Or they got into trouble, and he had to rescue them. But it usually worked out in the end, and half the time things worked out all the better for it, that initial wandering off. Still, it sometimes would be so much simpler if they'd just listen to him for once and didn't get captured or otherwise.

Not that he had to worry now.

It was just him.

And…that was fine. Perfectly fine. Just dandy.

Wait, hold on, what was Officer Waterer asking him now? Oh, bother that; he couldn't keep this up. Even he couldn't go without forty winks now and again. "Couldn't you just come back tomorrow?" the Doctor asked. "Or, wait, no, what time is it? Even later today, then. In an hour, if you must." When was the last time he'd gotten some sleep, anyway? He had no way of knowing, not when he didn't know how long he'd been caught in the trap. However long it had been, it had certainly been sufficient to sap his energy and drain his reserves.

Of course, considering that that was the _intention_ of the trap, he wasn't really surprised at all.

Well, maybe not the _sole_ intention, but _an_ intention nonetheless.

Officer Lloyd Waterer looked a bit startled at the request, and the Doctor supposed that he might have been the teensiest bit rude, especially considering that the other man had been saying something when he'd broken in—but that didn't really matter, did it, if Officer Waterer still agreed to come back later anyhow?

Deciding he'd feel more himself after he'd had a quick nap, and fully intending to thank Jim and Ellie and leave a note for Officer Waterer before he made himself scarce, the Doctor closed his eyes and settled down for a few minutes.

An hour later, he'd hardly moved a muscle, and Ellie, despite her promise, couldn't wake him when she tried and decided that perhaps it was best if he got some sorely needed sleep after all.


	16. Chapter 16

"Jim," Ellie started, after she'd turned Lloyd Waterer away, saying that that poor John Smith was in such a deep sleep that it would be a crying shame to wake him now just to be pestered with some more questions that really weren't so pressing that they couldn't be asked when he woke up later that afternoon, "suppose it really is important, what Lloyd wants to ask?"

"If it was that important," Jim replied, looking up from the newspaper, "he wouldn't have left, no matter what you'd said."

"He did mention that John looked familiar," Ellie began. "You don't suppose that it's—?"

"Oh, don't be a fool, Ellie. You always were one to jump to conclusions. He probably just saw him poking around earlier. _I _did, out the kitchen window this morning, when he went into Lloyd's old house. Heaven knows why. I thought he might be a surveyor or something of that sort. If he's an Englishman and a doctor at that, I don't know why he was in there any more than you do, and perhaps that's what Lloyd wants to know about, but there're all those regulations and such that we don't know anything about, so we'd best keep our mouths shut and let the people who know what they're doing do it."

"But he hasn't stirred since he fell asleep, and—"

"He might be ill, but he's not drunk. We would've smelled it. You took his temperature not ten minutes ago, and you've been checking on him, and I know you've got some wet cloths out. We can't do anything more."

"Yes, I'm doing what I can, but I thought Dr. Brin would be back by now," Ellie retorted. "He's not well, Jim, even if his temperature is down to normal now. I can't take care of him here. And I'm worried that I can't wake him up. He could—"

"Don't bother going on about it," Jim interrupted. "I've heard it all already. He's probably just a deep sleeper, and even more so now that he's ill. But if you're so worried it might be something else, then find those smelling salts we always keep around for when Kathy comes to visit us. Sweetest daughter-in-law we could ask for, yes, but she does have her spells. Those smelling salts would still be good, wouldn't they?"

Ellie laughed. "I hadn't even thought of that! Yes, I think I've got them in the dresser in the guest room…." She bustled off to find them, and Jim returned to his newspaper. It may not work. She almost doubted it would. She wasn't even certain that she should try it. But she couldn't think of anything better, and she was getting worried, and she couldn't quite remember that one trick she'd known, though she was sure she'd know it by this time tomorrow, or the minute it was too late to be of any use. That was always the way with those things.

The smelling salts had little effect, causing her to worry even more. She'd taken care of her children, yes, and as a retired teacher, she'd taken care of plenty of other children over the years. But it had been her sister, not her, who'd gone on to be a nurse, and though they'd spoken often over the years, Ellie herself had never had Mary's passion for medicine and aside from a few common home remedies, she didn't know much, despite how she'd assured John. And now, when she would have phoned up for information in an instant, she couldn't. If this had only happened last year—

John's temperature had spiked again—just when she'd been getting hopeful. She put another cool cloth on his head. Jim had found the man's identification—a doctor indeed, though he had so many letters behind his name she doubted he had an active practice. So many qualifications, in fact, that she'd wondered if he really was who he said he was. But Jim had set her straight, as always, keeping her imagination in line. Jim had sensible explanations. He always did. That was one of the reasons she loved him so much. He thought things through.

"I don't know what you caught," Ellie informed her patient, taking in everything from his flushed face to the unnerving stillness of his sleep to his slow, silent breaths, "but I hope your body can fight it off without help. I expect there were some complications that held Dr. Brin up, and he's the sort who'll want to make sure things are stable before he leaves, but he's coming as soon as he can. You just hold on until then, you hear?"

But whether he heard or not, Ellie couldn't know.

* * *

Lloyd Waterer had recognized that Dr. John Smith who had turned up on Jim and Ellie's doorstep. He had even realized _where_ he knew the man from, and after giving it some thought, he couldn't come up with a reason to ignore that initial observation in favour of a more reasonable one. But he didn't put much stock in dreams, especially crazy ones like the last one had been. Seeing the man turn up, and finding out that he'd been around his old house just like in his dream, was more than a tad disturbing, and he wanted to know precisely what the man was doing, which was why Jim had phoned him in the first place. The man had been trespassing on his property, after all.

Unfortunately, Ellie wasn't exaggerating when she said he was ill, and she wouldn't let him wake the man up for questioning.

If only Dr. Smith had been more coherent the first time around, he wouldn't have to worry so much.

Because he'd never answered him. Three times he'd asked what the good Dr. Smith had thought he was doing there, and three times the man had gone off on something else, mumbling and muttering and correcting himself before remembering the conversation again.

It had been those mutterings, though, that had set Lloyd Waterer thinking. And the more he thought, the more he recalled of his dream, and the more vivid every detail seemed as he thought about it. This was a dream that became clearer with time, not vaguer. It wasn't a normal dream, and it was the first he could remember in years. It had started out ordinarily enough, yes, but then things had turned up, things that didn't make sense, and soon enough he knew it was a dream even as he was dreaming it. Lucid dreams, he remembered. Those were lucid dreams. Except, when he'd wanted to wake up, he couldn't.

Things had been taking on a nightmarish quality, and he wasn't ashamed to admit he'd been scared, even in his dream. He'd looked for a way out and, knowing it was a dream and remembering what they always said about dying in dreams, had stepped on those cracks everyone had been warning him away from. It had done the trick; he'd woken up before he could die, just as he'd heard people say. He'd been relieved.

And then Jim had phoned him, telling him to come over, and explained the situation, and he'd taken one look at that Dr. Smith and the man hadn't even needed to say a word before he _knew_ it was the same man from the dream.

Impossible, but happening, and he had to deal with it as best he could.

Lloyd checked his watch. Nearly time for supper. Edith had always insisted on him being home for meals when he could be. She'd hated it when people were chronically late, and she made sure her meals were ready for six o'clock and no later. He'd protested, of course, early on. He'd said she couldn't expect him home until at least seven. She'd told him that if he wanted a hot meal, he could take the time to be with her. But she'd been an understanding woman; she knew he tried to be there, and forgave him when he couldn't, and even brought him something to the station once or twice, back when he'd been in the city and couldn't leave the office.

But it was hard to break old habits. Lloyd put his work aside for another day; he could look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow. It wasn't pressing; it was more of the tedious sort, the part he never liked doing but had to anyway, and while he wanted to get it over with, he was quite happy to put it aside for a spell.

He went over to Jim and Ellie's first. He'd had a bite to eat earlier, and supper could wait. "What did Dr. Brin have to say?" he asked.

"He never made it here," Ellie replied, twisting her hands in a way that told Lloyd she was worried. "He said he couldn't leave; Heather went into premature labour, and he's the only one who knows what to do. They're at the hospital now, of course. And you know how he feels for that family, after what happened to Neil. No one expected that, especially with a child on the way. No one really knew he was that depressed."

"I know," Lloyd agreed. He knew it all too well. He'd been the first one out there, after Heather had found her late husband, and he'd had to cut Neil down. "And you didn't run Dr. Smith to the hospital?"

"His fever broke," Ellie answered. Lloyd knew the real reason, of course. She didn't like going to the city. Too crowded and too noisy and too hectic to drive. Jim agreed with her on that, though he'd drive when he had to, but they'd remained out here for a reason.

"And has he woken up?" Lloyd didn't get a response, and he knew the answer. "I need to see him, Ellie."

"He's doing better," she insisted.

"I expect he is, under your care," Lloyd returned, "but he still needs to tell me what he was doing on my property." He highly doubted the man had actually been poking around the house in interest of buying it, but one never knew.

It took a bit more wheedling, and a few words from Jim, but Ellie relented and let him see her patient. She was as protective of him as she was curious. But she was also right—Dr. Smith was doing better. Even he could see that.

Lloyd shook the man gently, but to no avail. He remained asleep. Ellie had looked him over for bumps and bruises and cuts and had found nothing. She'd told him all that before. His pulse was thready, she'd said, and a bit fast, but his breathing was steady, and she'd done her best taking care of him, and he had responded to her care. His temperature had dropped. Still was dropping, and, last she'd checked, was a bit below normal, but she'd been keeping an eye on it and trying to make sure that it didn't go any further.

Edith might have had an idea what was wrong, but Lloyd didn't.

"If you get better," Lloyd informed the man, "you've got a bit of explaining to do." He looked down at his hands. "I don't know what to think, but it felt like more than just a dream. I know it wasn't, but to have you turn up after that gave me a turn. I'd like to know what you were doing, frankly. I haven't advertised that house in years, so it would be nice to know what you were doing poking around it."

"Sorry," came the dry-throated croak of a response. "Just needed to finish it all up. Couldn't leave it like that."

Lloyd's head shot up. Dr. Smith was awake, looking perfectly healthy, albeit a bit dishevelled. "_Now_ you're awake?" he asked, still disbelieving. After hearing Ellie go on and on and _on_….

There was a pause, and Dr. Smith took a tentative sniff. "Yes," he said. "Bit surprising, granted. I really didn't expect it. Wouldn't have thought I would wake up. But I think—" and here he sniffed again "—it was the smelling salts." His mouth split into a wide grin, as if smelling salts were a novel idea that he found new and fascinating and positively brilliant.

But it was also completely ludicrous, since Ellie had told him she'd tried the smelling salts shortly after lunch.

"When did you wake up?" Lloyd asked.

"You mean, how much do you need to repeat? Oh, bit hard to say, but I think I can fill in the blanks," Dr. Smith replied. "First off, it wasn't a dream, and no, I can't really explain it so that you can understand it all, so you probably are better off pretending it was a dream and leaving it at that." There was a pause. "The last few people I explained it to," he added, "weren't really inclined to believe a word I said, and I hate to waste my breath."

"Tell me what happened."

"But you won't—"

"Tell me," Lloyd repeated.

Dr. Smith made a face. "Oh, all right, but don't say I didn't warn you. I'll give you the abbreviated version, shall I? We were caught in a trap that twisted a stale piece of reality into a false state of realism, and we—well, _I_, I suppose, since I don't know when you escaped it—only just got out before it collapsed around me and trapped me in it forever." There was a very slight pause. "So, for all intents and purposes, it felt like a dream, and in a way, it _was_ a dream, but if you hadn't stepped on a crack and escaped it, you would still be dreaming, and you wouldn't wake up. And then it would collapse, and that would be that." Another pause. "So, I was just tidying up, after that trap was ripped away. And since it was situated around a wound that unfortunately rested in your former living room—a wound that wouldn't have existed without the trap, incidentally, even though the trap was built around the wound, so with it being all a bit of a paradox to your ears, I do hope you'll believe me when I say it'll take a while to explain all that if you insist that I do—that was the only place I could clean out the infection and stitch everything up."

"Who are you, then, to do that?"

"I'm the Doctor," the man replied. "Tending to time is part, you might say, of my duties, as tending to this town and its people are part of yours."

"So when you leave, things will return to normal?"

"If normal exists, then yes, I suppose they will. There's certainly nothing stopping that from happening."

Lloyd studied the man for a moment, this doctor who was so much more and yet only exactly what he claimed. He had shed the damp cloth from his forehead and the blanket that had covered his body, and he looked alert and healthy and utterly serious. "You look," Lloyd finally said, "like the sort of person who can't stay in one place."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "You look deeply, then," was all he said.

"I'm also getting the feeling," Lloyd continued, "that you aren't going to answer all my questions."

The Doctor gave an apologetic shrug. "That _would_ take a while," he pointed out.

"And you don't like to explain yourself," Lloyd added.

"I _love_ explaining myself!" the Doctor exclaimed indignantly. He blinked then, and amended, "Well, explaining, at any rate."

Lloyd shook his head. "You may love talking, but not explaining, not when it's hard. No matter how much you say, it's never enough, and people will always have questions."

"Questions are good," the Doctor said quietly.

"Oh, I'm not saying they aren't," Lloyd replied. "I'm just saying that you look like the type of person who tends to leave people with more questions than answers. You look like you're used to it, and that you expect it. All I'm saying is that I don't expect you to change." He stopped for a moment. "It would have been better if this had never happened," he said.

"But it did," the Doctor answered, "and it would have had to, eventually. Sooner or later, I was bound to turn up. And when I did, like this time, the trap would have been sprung, and things would have run their course. I can't say that they wouldn't have been different, but if they had been, I can't say that they would have been better. We were lucky this time."

"You probably say that a lot," Lloyd mused. "You look like you're used to being lucky."

The Doctor's expression darkened, just a bit. "Too much of a good thing doesn't last. I've learned that, so I appreciate the good luck when I get it."

"Seems like it's a frequent lesson," Lloyd commented. Before the Doctor could respond, he continued, "But your past is your own. Before you head on, I'd like to ask one more thing, and I'd like you to answer it. And I do mean answer it, not dance around the response."

The Doctor looked vaguely unhappy, but still nodded and said, "Ask away, then."

"What really happened on the night my wife died?"

The Doctor looked taken aback. "What?" he asked.

"In the trap, the dream, you said there were cracks, cracks that moved and grew. I hadn't noticed them in my dream back when they first appeared, and I didn't notice any here, but I'd still guess that there weren't any here. Jenny Blake was there, though, and I haven't seen her for nearly twenty years now. You were there that night, too, in the dream, but not out here. But you're acting like you're responsible for that wound in my living room, as if you yourself caused it, and, by extension, the trap and the dream. But if it was all no more real than a dream, and you only interacted with it within that dream, how is that possible? What really happened?"

The Doctor sighed. "That's dangerously close," he said, "to asking me to explain how the trap and the wound were the reasons for each other's existence when neither really came first because the other was already there—like your chicken and egg concept, I suppose. But, fine. I'll do my best.

"To begin with, you ought to know that that particular New Year's Eve already bears scars of time tampering. You lot sometimes think of the space-time continuum like a piece of fabric, right? Well, sometimes, you can get a snag in that fabric. There was one here, and when everything else healed up properly, this particular piece didn't. It remained raw. Or, no, maybe it's best to think of it like a scab—healing, but not yet healed. Because of that, it was more sensitive to other changes in time.

"Now, in the trap—your dream, if you like—I first met you and Jenny in 2010. By going back to 1999 and running into you there, that changed. It wasn't a _big_ change, but it was enough to open the wound again and set it bleeding, leaking things back to that night. So, yes. You were right. The wound _was_ my fault, and that's why I had to stitch it closed."

"But that didn't happen in reality," Lloyd countered.

"That was reality," the Doctor corrected. "Just a different piece than this one, that's all. Not quite an alternate reality, though I'm sure you've heard of those. It was more…a stale piece of reality, being reused and recycled but never renewed, and it was starting to die. And, when the trap collapsed, it did, in a way—die, that is. It started to fade. Now, for you, it's nothing more than a strange, vivid dream."

"So what really happened that night?" Lloyd repeated.

"I don't really know," the Doctor admitted. "I wasn't there. I've been in two different realities that I can recall at the moment, and neither are the one you're asking after. But I think it's safe to assume that what really happened was simply what you remember: your wife passed away. It was unfortunate, and it was used, wrongly, to trick me, and I'm sorry for that, but I can't change anything now."

Lloyd frowned. "You said you'd answer my question. Fully."

"I can't answer it much more than that," the Doctor protested. "I don't have the answer, not to the question you really want to know the answer to."

"Very well." Lloyd Waterer took a deep breath. "Thank you, then, for answering what you did. I'll take my leave now. You may be better now, and I haven't a clue how you could have managed that, but even if you really are back to your old self, you might have a bit of trouble convincing Ellie of that. Jim and Ellie are nice people. They'll put you up for the night if you ask them to. But I'm asking for them that you leave in the morning. I don't want you to set their hearts aching like you've set mine."

The Doctor took a slow breath. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I really am. For everything. So, yes. I agree; I'll leave on the morrow." He paused. "I am still tired, actually. Wouldn't have thought I would be."

"Get some rest, then," Lloyd replied. He hesitated, then added, "And, the others—the CBI team that was sent out here. They were real, weren't they?"

"Oh, yes," the Doctor agreed. "Quite real. And I've got to go visit them now. They have something of mine. Well, two things, actually. Just, they can't find the other one. Well, I hope they can't. I might be in a bit of trouble if they did. Especially if they put two and two together…." He trailed off, then asked, looking rather worried, "How long have I been out, exactly?"

"Maybe eight hours," Lloyd replied, "but if you're still not a hundred percent, you better not push yourself. Take your time to get where you're going and reclaim whatever you left behind. It's not going to go anywhere without you, especially if you don't even think they can find it."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that," the Doctor muttered. "She's gone off without me before. Granted, she usually had a good reason. Well, if she had a choice. She didn't always have the choice. Sometimes it was just a reaction, or she was forced to it, or—" He broke off and looked apologetic. "Sorry. Right. Yes. I'll take your advice. That's been serving me well lately, taking advice. It's not often I get to do that."

He looked, Lloyd figured, like a person who was more used to giving advice than receiving it, but he took it gladly and didn't seem to be one to ignore it without giving it due consideration. But that didn't matter, not really, not in the end. The things that mattered were the things that he still had, or still remembered truly, despite the conflicting memories of the dream and the reality he knew. Some things had changed. Others had remained the same. And though the ones that had remained the same sometimes pained him, he wouldn't wish it otherwise—if those circumstances were different, others would be, too, and, like the Doctor, he couldn't tell whether that would be for better or for worse. Frankly, if this was how one found out, he'd rather he never did know.

He preferred a simple, straightforward life, and he would be quite happy to return to living that life.

But in the meantime, that dream had taught him one thing—even if he couldn't stand to live in his old house, he couldn't hold on to it forever. Even if he didn't want to let go, he had to. He just needed to find the right family to take it over, a family that would love and care for it as much as he had, and a family that seemed as right for the house as the house seemed for them, much like the Williams family had, back in his dream.

That family may not be real, but there was another out there, he was certain, that was, and with a bit of effort, he could find them.

Tomorrow, he'd start fixing the house up again, and as soon as it was presentable, he'd put it back on the market.

* * *

A/N: Despite possible appearances otherwise, I'm not _quite_ done yet. I have one more chapter planned. I just thought I should be nice and not leave you hanging from a cliff; after all the kind reviews I've received, I'd be terrible to be so cruel when I'm so near to the end of the story, now wouldn't I?


	17. Chapter 17

It had been three days, and Lisbon was convinced that if she hadn't had that dratted key, she would have been quite content to believe that that entire incident was just a dream. They were wrapping up their latest case—Jane had managed to get a confession quite quickly, though at this point she still wasn't entirely sure how, and wasn't sure that she _ought _to know, in case he hadn't exactly followed protocol to get it. But as they began tying things up, her mind kept drifting back to that dream that wasn't a dream, and she wasn't sure what to make of it.

Perhaps Jane was wrong, and the Doctor wasn't going to turn up after all.

Perhaps he wasn't even real.

Though, if he wasn't, she didn't know who would go to all the trouble of making up a character like that.

No, he _was_ real, she was nearly completely sure of that. And she had his key. She was sure it wasn't just something he'd leave behind. He'd needed it for something or he wouldn't have kept trying to get it back from her. But if all that were true, he ought to have turned up by now. Even if he'd been halfway across the world, he should have made it here by now.

She shouldn't be bothering with all of this. She just needed a breath of fresh air, that's all. That she hadn't been in the office for most of the day was beside the point—she'd been too busy to stop and enjoy any of the fresh air that she might have been out in. She'd been quite busy, actually. Just…not busy enough to forget everything that had, or hadn't, happened.

She could ignore it for a while, but it always seemed to creep back to the forefront of her mind, standing in the wings when she pushed it away.

It was late, anyway. Well, latish. It was past seven now. Closer to eight, actually, now that she had a chance to look at her watch again. She really ought to get a bite to eat, even if she wasn't particularly hungry. Had all the loose ends been tied up, she wouldn't have had to worry, given their tradition of dining on pizza—without pineapples, if Cho had his way—when they officially closed a case, but as it stood, she was the last one left in the office. Even Jane had finally left, though she couldn't recall when; she'd been too busy trying to focus on her work and failing to completely ignore the key that she still had in her pocket—the key, and everything it meant.

She had just decided, while waiting for the elevator, to put this entire thing out of her mind once and for all when the doors slid open and she saw the Doctor standing there.

Predictably, he grinned as he stepped out to shake her hand. "Agent Teresa Lisbon," he crowed. "_Just_ the person I wanted to see!"

For a minute, she didn't believe he was there. She almost thought she might be imagining it all. But there he stood, just as she remembered, suit, tie, sneakers, and all. And then he hugged her, blithering on about how good it was that she appeared to be perfectly healthy and hadn't suffered any side effects, and that he hoped the same was true for the rest of them. By the time she got away, it was a struggle to open her mouth, but when she finally did, all that came out was, "How the hell did you get here?"

"Get here or get _in_ here?" the Doctor asked, both hands now stuffed into his pockets. "Because those are two very different questions, and while I think you look like you'd want to know the answer to both, I'd hate to waste your time by going off on something you really don't care to know about." He paused, and must have read something in her expression, because he then continued, "Well, as for getting _in_ here, it wasn't much trouble at all. Never is; just have to show them my handy-dandy psychic paper if anyone stops me, which you might recall from the last time you met me, which I know you remember because of your kind greeting. As for _getting_ here, well, I was in the mood for a bit of a chitchat, and I promised a friend I would take it slowly for a day or two, so I hitchhiked."

"You hitchhiked?" Lisbon repeated.

"Well, I didn't exactly have a ride, or even a proper place to be once I got out of the trap, not like you lot," the Doctor said. "And, yes, it did take loads longer than flying, but it's much more interesting. I met all sorts of people. Much more talkative than the sort you meet on a bus. Well, most of them. I took a bus not too long ago. That didn't end so well. Well, it ended not too badly, actually, but it nearly didn't end up very well at all. I suppose it could have been worse than it was, but it was bad enough as it was anyway. Buses, planes—I needed a change. Ooh, I could have taken a train, I suppose. I haven't taken a train in ages. But then there's all that bother with procuring money, and I'd much rather have a nice visit with someone who picks me up off the road. I had some really interesting conversations. Did you know that—?"

"Not likely, no," Lisbon interrupted, realizing that if she didn't break in now, she might not have another chance, "but I'd rather you answer some of my questions, Doctor. I have enough of them."

"Oh," he said, looking distinctly less cheerful. "You would, wouldn't you? Suppose I ought to have expected that. Well, I could just pick your pocket and be on my way, since I have the feeling that you've got my key with you, but that's just plain rude, and I really ought to try not to be rude, because I seem to have this terrible tendency to—"

"Babble?" Lisbon cut in.

The Doctor looked a bit sheepish. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to get off topic like that. It's just a bit of a habit. I start off on something, and—oh. Sorry. I was doing it again, wasn't I? Sorry. You were saying?"

"I wanted to ask," Lisbon started carefully, "what happened. Back…then."

"In the trap?" the Doctor asked. He looked a bit unhappy when she nodded. "Oh, you all want to know that, don't you? You lot are all the same, asking the same questions, having the same disbelieving looks when I tell you the truth…." He trailed off, seeing her face. "It never seems to make much more sense when I do explain it," he cautioned her.

"I don't care. Just tell me." Lisbon crossed her arms, waiting. The explanation she received didn't make much sense, as the Doctor had warned. She kept asking questions, and he kept answering, though he starting giving less and less detail and she strayed further from the subject of the time trap and what seemed so much like a dream to her. Finally, she asked, "Who are you, really? Not Dr. John Smith, not Inspector Smith, not the Doctor, so who _are _you?"

"I _am_ the Doctor," he insisted, looking vaguely offended that she had disbelieved him.

"But that's not even your real name," she protested. "It's not even a name at all!"

"But it's who I am," he answered. "No more, no less. Just the Doctor."

"Really?" she asked, sceptically. "So when you're back in the UK, is that the name you put on all the forms? Is that the name on your passport?"

The Doctor laughed. A good, long laugh, like he hadn't had reason to laugh in ages and now could hardly contain it once he'd started. Still smirking, even though he'd finally pulled himself together, he asked, "Didn't I ever tell you I never bother with paperwork?"

She did recall that, and told him so, but added, "Are you going to try to tell me you don't have anything? A social insurance number, a mailing address, a health—"

"I don't need one," the Doctor said, cutting her off, though he was still grinning. "Well, not anymore. Not that I ever _did_ bother with all of that when I was stuck here. Perhaps I should have. Well, with some of them. I have gotten a few things, though, over the years. Like a library card. I'm…not entirely sure where that is now. I should find that. It'd be a bit outdated now, though. Do those things expire? I haven't seen it in, oh, when was it…. For you, it might've been…the seventies? Sixties? I've a terrible memory, actually, when it comes to that sort of thing. You wouldn't believe the things I've lost over the years simply because I put them down somewhere and haven't come across them again."

Lisbon closed her eyes. "Why," she asked, not bothering to open them, "are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" came the innocent response.

"Driving me insane," she retorted, opening her eyes again. "Going on and on as if you don't belong anywhere and you're free to do as you please and as if you're a hell of a lot older than you look!"

The Doctor's face fell at her words. "Well," he started softly, "I _am_ older than I look, for one, and there aren't a lot of people who can get the better of me, so to a certain extent, I can do what I want, though I am beholden to my own conscience, and that's often better than following the rules set out by my people, since I break about as many of those laws as I uphold. As for belonging, well, you're right about that, I suppose. I don't belong anywhere anymore."

"What?" Lisbon was still trying to follow the sudden shift from cheery to bleak, laughter to sorrow.

"I don't really want to talk about it," the Doctor said. He sounded…almost broken. "That entire trap was just a painful reminder, that's all. I didn't think it could still exist, after everything that happened, and I think the only reason that it survived was because it was dormant, and so was the wound. If they had been active, it would've been locked away with everything else."

"But that trap—"

"Was exactly what I told you it was, when I explained it the first time," the Doctor interrupted. "That hasn't changed, even if you're no longer caught in it. It was designed to catch me and keep me there, and that it did, at least until Patrick Jane reminded me of a few things I shouldn't have overlooked in the first place. And I'm lucky he did, frankly, because I…I'm not sure…. I don't know if I would have put it together quickly enough," the Doctor admitted. "I was looking too hard for an answer that was right under my nose. I…miss things, sometimes. And, well, it hasn't been the death of me _yet_, but it very nearly has been before, and it very well could have been then."

"But how—?"

"Please, Teresa," the Doctor said. "Really, please don't ask me to tell you everything. Aside from the fact that you really don't have enough time to hear it all, it's…a bit complicated. And…more than a bit painful. I…don't really want to…tear those wounds open right now."

She'd seen Jane wearing that same look and knew it was genuine. "Sorry," she said. "It's just that you aren't really explaining anything, and I need it explained so that I can understand it all."

"Is it so bad," the Doctor asked, "if you _don't_ understand it all? I mean, there are things in this world you don't understand, aren't there?"

"Clearly," Lisbon said, in a not very amused tone of voice.

"So is it so terribly hard to put that experience with the rest of the things you don't understand? Well, that experience and me, though I don't know why you'd expect to understand me when you've hardly known me at all, since I've had people travel with me for years and still not really understand me, even if some of them come quite close to it."

"But how am I supposed to talk about any of this to anyone if I can't even understand it? _Jane_ can't even explain it, and he usually thinks he has an answer to everything!" Not that she didn't think that Jane knew something he wasn't telling her, but she'd never get him to admit it. He usually did know more than the rest of them, but knowing didn't guarantee that he'd tell it, any of it. Frankly, she wasn't convinced that he wouldn't deliberately withhold information from them if it ever worked in his favour—something that made her worry even more every time they had a lead on Red John. If Jane ever followed up a lead without telling them, he could….

"Did you want to talk about it?" the Doctor asked, looking surprised. "Most people don't. They'd rather ignore it and push it away and forget about it, going around pretending it never happened. I would've thought you'd rather do that."

"I do, but I can't." Lisbon shook her head. "I just…. I keep trying to sort it out, and I can't, because if all of that really happened, then there are so many things that no longer make sense, and I can't…."

Evidently she didn't need to finish, because the Doctor was nodding, as if he understood her response. "If you're willing to accept," he started, carefully, "that there are things out there that you never dreamed of, but are as real as you or me, then I can give you the number of a good friend of mine. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. I met up with her not too long ago, and she extended that offer to a…another friend. This friend of mine, Sarah Jane Smith, well, I left her in a bit of a lurch a few years back. Well, more than a few, actually. But she managed. She managed brilliantly. But…she'll understand, when you tell her, if you want to talk to her. And she'll believe you. She knows more about me than you do, after all. And…she says it's hard, when people are dropped back into their lives without another word. And she's right, you know. I would've done that to you, too, if you hadn't still had the key to the TARDIS."

"The key to what?"

"The TARDIS. My…blue box. The one that holds most of my secrets, the ones that I don't just keep up here," the Doctor answered, tapping his temple. "You'll…understand if you ring up Sarah. But now's not the time for me to tell you everything. You're tired, for one, and wouldn't believe a word of it in the morning until you looked to see if you still had my key. So it's really best not to go into it all right now. But, if you decide to talk to Sarah, don't, well, tell everyone else everything. They're liable to lock you up, for one. I'm lucky that it doesn't happen to me. Well, not too often. Well, not for very long, at least." A slight hesitation, then, "Also, I'm not sure if…. There are still things out there that are my enemies, and I don't like to have them know everywhere I've been or everything I've done, so I try not to leave too many traces, especially now that I'm the…." The Doctor stopped. "Well, let's just say that they know anything they find will lead them to me. They won't be confusing my trail with anyone else's."

Lisbon stared at him for a moment. "You're worse than Jane," she said. "You don't tell people anything."

The Doctor gave her a small, slightly sad, smile. "Lately, I've been getting into more trouble when I tell people things than when I don't. It wasn't always that way. You lot aren't quite as…open-minded as you used to be. Or as trusting. I don't get as far as I used to, when I try to tell you things. Sometimes it's easier not to say much at all. But then I leave people with too many questions, and more than one of you lot have gotten yourselves into trouble searching for the answers. There's no telling whose attention you'll attract when you try that." He paused, then rummaged in his pockets for a bit before pulling out a pen and pad of paper. He wrote something down, then tore off a sheet and handed it to her. "Sarah Jane's number," he said. "She lives in Ealing, so mind the time change; she has a son now, and probably doesn't want to give him the excuse to be up in the middle of the night when he's got school the next morning."

Lisbon took the number and looked at it. "Ealing?" she repeated. "That's London, right?" She wrinkled her forehead. "Eight hours or something ahead of us, then?"

The Doctor nodded. "At the moment," he agreed. He paused, then added, "And, perhaps it would be best to mention what I'm wearing, or how I look, just so she knows and gets her story straight. Well, that'll depend on how much she tells you, I suppose." He paused again. "Of course, if you'd like to try to find someone to talk to face to face, you could try tracking down Dr. Grace Holloway. But…I've changed since I last saw her. I don't know where she is now. Haven't seen her since the first hour of 2000. But she _did_ live in San Francisco. I don't know if she does now." He hesitated again before adding, "She knows a bit more than you, but not much. Sarah can give you more answers than Grace, but Grace understands how it feels to have time rewind on you and then be left with hardly a word in parting."

Lisbon smirked. "You do this a lot, then?"

"More often than I should and yet not often enough," the Doctor answered quietly. "And recently, yes, even excluding you and your team, I've done it. Easter. It was Easter. That was…quite memorable."

"Easter's next week," Lisbon said bluntly.

"Oh." The Doctor reached up one arm to scratch the back of his head. "Right. Should've remembered that. That's the trouble with it moving all the time. I can never remember when it is." He frowned, then said, "No, wait, this is 2010, isn't it? It was last Easter, then. 2009."

"And that's recent, is it?"

"For me it was," the Doctor answered.

Lisbon pursed her lips. "Fine. Call it recent. But if you can't tell me who you are and how you're really involved in all of this, you can't expect me to give you your key back. That's the only thing I have as a guarantee that I'll get any straight answers out of you in the end."

"_Well_," the Doctor said, pulling a face as he dragged the word out, "I wouldn't, exactly, put it that way."

Lisbon crossed her arms. "And why not?"

The Doctor gave her a sheepish smile. "Well, I may have, sort of, figured that you might refuse a simple request like giving me my key back."

"And?"

"I, well…." The Doctor trailed off. "I was rude," he said.

"What?" Lisbon asked, not understanding what he was getting at.

"Just plain rude," the Doctor added unhelpfully.

"Just tell me what you mean," Lisbon said. "Quit trying to beat around the bush."

The Doctor swallowed, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. "I figured it would be in my best interest not to trust you," he said, and replaced the key in his pocket.

Lisbon stared at him for a moment, and then she realized what he meant. Her hand flew to her pocket, and she found it empty. "You stole it!" she accused.

"Well, it's not exactly stealing if it's mine, is it?" the Doctor asked. "I was just…taking it back. Although I did, sort of, steal the TARDIS back when I first left. But no one wanted her then. Is it really stealing if all you're doing is taking something no one else wants?"

"I can't believe you!" Lisbon exclaimed. "When did you take that off of me, anyway? Right at the beginning? Why didn't you just leave, then?"

"Well, I didn't want to be _too_ rude," the Doctor pointed out. "And I, well, sort of need to be on this floor anyhow."

Lisbon glared at him for a moment, and then sighed and shook her head. "Oh, I just…. I can't believe you," she repeated. "This is just utterly insane."

"If you find this so bad," the Doctor said, "then maybe you shouldn't ring Sarah."

Lisbon frowned at him. "This isn't like _The_ _Matrix_," she shot back. "It's not a choice between a red or blue pill."

"No, nothing as definitive as that," the Doctor agreed. "It's merely a question of how much you want to find out weighed against how much you don't really want to know."

Lisbon made a face. "Have you always been like this?" she asked sarcastically.

The Doctor shook his head. "Nah. I've got a bit of a fluid personality. I'd say this is one of the better ones, really. You should have seen some of the ones I've had in the past. Of course, some traits carry through. Some don't. I wasn't always this rude. Or this talkative. Or—"

"You know what?" Lisbon interrupted. "I've changed my mind. _This_ isn't insane. _You're_ insane."

The Doctor chuckled. "This from the woman who is asking me about a dream of a reality that can't fit into this timeline? I never said this would make sense to you, Teresa Lisbon. I never promised you that. I may have agreed to explain, but I hardly ever have the time to make proper explanations. The thing is, I can never fully explain something to someone. And sometimes, I'll slip in a lie to make things easier, and people never know the difference. If I told you I was, oh, 906, say, would you believe me? Not likely. And it wouldn't be entirely true, either. It can't be, the way I spend my life. Some days I count; some days I don't. Would you believe me any more if I told you I was an alien?"

Lisbon snorted. "Fat chance of that," she said, "since I somehow doubt you're referring the fact that you're not from the US."

"There, then, see? No sense in saying any of that."

Lisbon raised an eyebrow. "You're not serious," she said.

"Am I or aren't I?" the Doctor returned. "Hard to tell, isn't it? I've spent a lot of time acting, Teresa Lisbon. Sometimes I'm good at it. Sometimes I'm absolutely terrible. But if _I_ can hardly make sense of myself, why would I go to all the trouble of trying to allow you to make sense of me when you clearly can't do that when I'm changing so much that I sometimes surprise myself?" He shook his head. "I've learned a lot of things in all my years. I know when to fib and when to tell the truth and when to mix the two together, and I know more languages than you can count, but sometimes I can't just come out and say things. It's still too difficult. So I dance around the topic and beat around the bush and make quite certain that no one really knows precisely how much to believe or how much of what they guess is really true, and then I can pretend, just for a moment, that the truth isn't what it is and that things are better than I'd thought they were."

Lisbon just stared at him for a moment. Then she said, "You can't pretend forever."

"No," the Doctor agreed. "I can't. And perhaps I shouldn't try. But sometimes I'd rather pretend than face it all, all I've done and all I didn't do, all the good and all the bad. But I can't tell anyone everything. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't."

"You're always running, aren't you?" Lisbon asked. "From your past."

The Doctor was quiet for a moment before saying, "And my future. I'm not particularly looking forward to that, either." Before she could say any more, he continued, "But, that's neither here nor there, is it? I've my key and you've some answers, so we've all got what we want, yes? No need to stick around."

He was running. Lisbon had no doubt about that. He would talk, but only about so much. She couldn't tell if the pain was a recent one. Whether it was or not, it was kept fresh. Like Jane, he looked pained, but he hid it. Behind his grins and enthusiastic demeanour, something was eating away at him, and he did his best not to let people see it. But they did, she figured, if he let them get too close. And he had, evidently, decided that he couldn't risk it of late, perhaps because last time things hadn't gone as he'd planned.

Jane had probably realized that ages back. Perhaps he'd noticed when they'd first met.

Those two were alike in many ways, but not in all of them. One of the most jarring differences she could notice was that Jane was searching for Red John, striving to find him and pouring all his energies into every lead that turned up. But the Doctor…. He wasn't searching for something like that.

Jane had someone to blame for the tragedy in his past, but Lisbon suspected the Doctor only blamed himself for whatever had happened. He certainly looked like he wanted to blame someone else, but the things that he had told her made her think he took a good part of the blame upon himself, as if he were responsible for whatever tragedy had occurred in his past.

It was different with Jane. Jane felt guilty for what had happened to his family, but he buried that guilt under anger at the person who had murdered them. The Doctor…the Doctor acted as if _he_ were the one who had not only caused the deed to happen, but had also committed it himself.

Some things she would never know, and some things she had no desire _to_ know.

"I'll see you out," Lisbon said.

The Doctor looked like he was going to protest, but then he relented. "Very well. I just need to nip over to the broom closet. I left something in there."

"That box of yours?"

"Yes," the Doctor agreed, starting off. "My TARDIS."

"You named it?"

"My granddaughter did. The name spread. Except for those few who were exceptional sticks-in-the-mud, most people called those boxes like mine TARDISes. Not that they were all just boxes. They can be most anything."

Lisbon snorted. "Your granddaughter?" she repeated incredulously. "Yeah, right. Pull the other one."

The Doctor gave her that small smile of his again. "Told you I'm older than I look," he said.

"Sure. A bit older than forty."

The smile grew slightly. "Just a bit."

They spent the rest of the short walk in silence. As they approached the broom closet, Lisbon said, "I'll get the door, if you like. It jams sometimes."

"Nah," the Doctor said, reaching out to open it with ease, though he didn't open it wide. "I'm good with doors." He grinned at her then, the bright grin he'd given her so often before. "Goodbye, Teresa Lisbon. And good luck."

"Goodbye?" Lisbon repeated. "This isn't goodbye. You're just grabbing something and coming back out."

The Doctor gave a little shrug. "Sarah Jane told me I never say goodbye. I'm trying to learn. So goodbye, Agent Lisbon. If I still wore a hat, I'd tip it to you. It's been a pleasure, really. And…tell Patrick Jane to be careful, will you?"

"What?" Lisbon asked, now thoroughly confused. "Be careful about what?"

"Just to…be careful. Because…he can't protect everyone, even when he tries. I know. I've tried." The Doctor's smile was that small, sad one again. "And good luck to you. Things won't be as bad as you think they will be. Just…be sure to keep going. Don't change too much; only change just enough to get by." And before she could question him further, he opened the door wide and slipped into the closet, closing the door tightly behind him.

She stood there for a few seconds, too shocked to move. Then she reached for the door, trying to get it open. The darned thing had jammed again. As she fought with it, she heard some sort of grinding, wheezing sound, unlike anything she'd ever heard before, escalating and then fading away, and she had to wonder what the hell the Doctor was doing in there. But by the time she got the door open, the sound was gone, and the closet was empty.

_Fin_

A/N: Well, I finally finished. Some questions I answered; some I didn't (even if I perhaps should have), but I had fun anyway. How did it turn out, overall? Any suggestions? I've gotten a couple, most regarding the confusion of the two Doctors, but am open to more. As far as that goes, though, I'd like to thank everyone who's read and reviewed, offering comments or suggestions or encouragement or pointing out things that I needed to fix, which I hope I managed adequately: Ezzi, becciehill, wishyfishy, Poppie, DrippingPen, emma, Sarcasm-the Lowest Form of Wit, Sarah, Shoveler, Sizz, Basia Orci, VirendraLione, lilaclila, NRZWolf 13, Elvaro, RuthLeilani, Shard Aerliss, Nefra, TotallyLosingIt, and Amazing Bluie. I always appreciate hearing what people think, so thanks! And a very merry Christmas to all of you.

UPDATE: All right, in acknowledging that I might have left a few too many questions unanswered, I wrote a short follow-up to tie up a few things, appropriately titled _Loose_ _Ends_.


End file.
